.  4.  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  '  *  *  *  •  *  *  * 

^   .  ^   .  ^   .  ^   .  *   .  >J.   .   4^   •  *   •  *   •  *   •  »lr   •  *   •   *   •  *   •  ^*   •   ■ 

^  .  ^  .  *  .,  *  .  4. .  *  .  *  •  *  .  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  : 

'  *  .  *  .  *  .  *  .  *  •  ^l'  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  ^^  •  *  •  *  •  *  * 


'     *     •     ^*     •     ^*     •     *     •     ^*     •     ^*     •     -I*     •     *     •     »^     •     *     •     *     •     *     •     *  ■  •   .'l- 

•  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  ^  •  *  •  ^:^  •  ->  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  'I-  •  '■^  • 
1^  •  *  •  C-f  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  4  t^  •  ♦  •  *  • 
♦*•*•*•*•*•*•*•♦•  •  -^  •*•*■-.       -.^ 

if  •*•*•*•*•*•*•*•  4  -!*•*•♦•*•* 

•  ^*    •   *    •   *    •    ^    •    *    •    *    •    *    •    ^*    •    •'t    •    *    •    *Jr    •    *   •   %    •    *    •    *    • 

'  *  •  *  •  ^^        *    •  ■*•  •  ^$^  •■  *  •  ^*  •  ijf  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  • 
Jf  •  *  •  -Y-  ■  •  ,*  •  *  •  ^  •  *  •  -ft  •  *  •  *  •  )jf  •  >t  •  *  •  * 

•  *  •  ^-  T*  •  *  .  *  •  *■•  •  *  •  »if  •  *  •  ':^  •  *  •- 

•■  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  -^  *  •  *  •  ^  •  ^*  •  *  •  »i^  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •' 

•  *  •  *  •  ^«  •  ^«  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  4*  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  >&  •  ♦l*  • 
*•*•*•■:?*•*•♦•  ^<f  .*•*•♦>•*•*•  »lf  .*•>>•  * 

•  -r<-  •  ^  •  ^  •  ^*  •  ^*  •  ^*  •  ^f  •  ^  •  4^  •  >^  •  *>  •  ♦jf  .  *jf  •  4*  •  ijf.  • 

-5f   •   ^<    •*"•*•*•*•#•    *J-    •    -r    •     :-    •     r    •    4-    •    ->    •     r    •    * 
-     "-^  -•!*•*•*•€♦•*•   ^<    •    -'i-    •'>•    'i'    •'>•*•'>•*   • 

•  *  •  -i-  •  ^*  •  -^^  •*•€*•*•*•♦•*•*•*•#•*•*  • 

•  •  *  .  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  .  ^-e  .  ^.  .  >i,  .  .J.  .  ^  .  .Je  .  4,  .  *j.  .  »>  .  ^ 

•  *  •  *  •  *  •  ^<  •  *  •  *  •  ^^  •  *  •  *  .   *  .  *  •    *  .  4  t'  • 

•  •  *   •   *   •   ^—   ^-   •  *   •   *   .  ^*   .   *   •   *   •   *   •   ♦   •  *   .    .  •   4 
.•  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  ^*  •  *  •  *  •  ■•>       4-   •   '^  •  *  .  *■   •   -; 

*•    *    •    ^^    •    *    •    *    •    C*    •*•♦*•■>:-•    r*-    •*•*•*..*•    *r    •    -r 

•  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  .  *  •  *  •  *  .  »t,  .  Jj,  .  ,J,  .  ^*.  ^  . 
*•  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  ^-^  •*.*•*•*.*.*•■*.  »Je  .  *  .  >J 

•  *  •  *  •  -:-^  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *if-  •  *  •  *  •  ^:-  •■>?'•"  ♦:-  • 

•  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  .  c^  .  *  •  *  .  *  .  ^  •.  .  *j 

•  *  •  ^  •  ^  •*•♦•-•-'-•  -?—  ■'■  .  .c  .  ^.  .  ,'.-  '..  . 

•  ^  •  ^*  •*•*•*•-;*•   i-  •  -i-  •  vir  ■  ^j-  •  -i-  •  V-  •  i-  •  ^t  •  ->  • 

•  •  *  •  *  .  *  •  *  •  ^*  •  ^*  .  •*  .  »i.  •  *>  .  »J^  •  »Je  •  *  .  ^  .  *  .  li 

•  *  •  ^*  •  ^*  •*?♦•*•*•  *•*.*•*•*•*•>!..#..*  . 

*•  *  •  *  •  -f*  •  *  •  ^*  •*•-?-•■•*-  •  •:-  .  ^-  ■  ^-  .  ^  .  .   '  i 

•*:•*•  4  -&  •  *  •  •  *  • 

•  •   *   •    *    •    i-    •    H—    *    •    *    •    n.'    •    >r    •    tr    •    *^    •    -r    •    ti-    •*•>>•    4 

•  *•*•*•♦•#•*•*•#•*-•*•.*•*.  »if  .  *  .  *  . 

*•*•*•  ■•  .    #    .    ^    .    ^.    .    ^  .    ^i.    .    ^    .    *J.  .  ^    .    >|e    •    *    •    4 

•*•*•■%•  '  i-   •   *   •   *   •   *   •  *   •   *   •   *   •  *  •   ^:^   •  ^   •   4^   • 

*ff    •    *    .    *    .  -^    .  ^*  •*.*.,•*.  .*f  •*•*,•*  •  -4 

•    *    •    *    •    -r*  •    ■^-    •  -&    •    *    ;    *    •    •-•     •  -r    .    -1-    .    J-    •  -•■  -if    . 

*•*•*•  •  *  •  *  •  H  •  ^ 


Kk^ 


'^HP 


WILEY   &   PUTNAM'S 


LIBRARY  OF 


CHOICE    READING, 

POETICAL     WORKS 

OF 

JOHN   KEATS. 

FART  I  . 


THE 


POETICAL     WORKS 


OF 


JOHN  KEATS 


IN  TWO  PARTS. 

PART      I. 


NEW-YORK: 
WILEY    &.    PUTNAM,   161    BROADWAY. 

1846. 


CONTENTS. 


rxat 

ENDYiMION  :   A  Poetic  Romance 1 

LAMIA 135 


ENDYMiON: 


POETIC    ROJIANCE. 


INSCRIBED    TO    THE    MEMORY    OF     THOMAS    CHATTERTON, 


The  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  aong. 


PART    I. 


PREFACE. 


Knowing  within  myself  the  manner  in  which  tnis  Poem  has  been 
produced,  it  is  not  without  a  feeling  of  regret  that  I  make  it  public. 

What  manner  I  mean,  will  be  quite  clear  to  the  reader,  who 
must  soon  perceive  great  inexperience,  immaturity,  and  every 
error  denoting  a  feverish  attempt,  rather  than  a  deed  accomplished. 
The  two  first  books,  and  indeed  the  two  last,  I  feel  sensible  are 
not  of  such  completion  as  to  warrant  their  passing  the  press ;  nor 
should  they,  if  I  thought  a  year's  castigation  would  do  them  any 
good  ; — it  will  not,  the  foundations  are  too  sandy.  It  is  just  that 
this  youngster  should  die  away :  a  sad  thought  for  me,  if  I  had 
not  some  hope  that  while  it  is  dwindling  I  may  be  plotting,  and 
fitting  myself  for  verses  fit  to  live. 

This  may  be  speaking  too  presumptuously,  and  may  deserve  a 
punishment :  but  no  feeling  man  will  be  forward  to  inflict  it :  he 
will  leave  me  alone,  with  the  conviction  that  there  is  not  a  fiercer 
hell  than  the  failure  in  a  great  object.  This  is  not  written  with 
the  least  atom  of  purpose  to  forestall  criticisms  of  course,  but  from 
the  desire  I  have  to  conciliate  men  who  are  competent  to  look,  and 
who  do  look  with  a  zealous  eye,  to  the  honor  of  English  literature. 

The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy,  and  the  mature  imagina- 
tion of  a  man  is  healthy ;  but  there  is  a  space  of  life  between,  in 
which  the  soul  is  in  a  ferment,  the  character  undecided,  the  way 
of  life  uncertain,  the   ambition  thick-sighted  :    thence    proceeds 


PREFACE. 


mawkishness,  and  all  the  thousand  bitters  which  those  men  I  speal* 
of  must  necessarily  taste  in  going  over  the  following  pages. 

I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day  touched  the  beautiful  my- 
thology of  Greece,  and  dulled  its  brightness  :  for  I  wish  to  try 
once  more,  before  I  bid  it  farewell. 

Teignmouth,  April  10,  1818 


BOOK  I. 


A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever  : 

Its  loveliness  increases  ;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness  ;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing. 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darken'd  ways 

Made  for  our  searching  :  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the  moon, 

Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep ;  and  such  are  daffodils 

With  the  green  world  they  live  in  ;  and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season  ;  the  mid-forest  brake, 

Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk- rose  blooms; 

And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 

We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead  ; 

All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read  : 

An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 

Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 


ENDYMION.  [book  i. 


Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon. 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite. 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast. 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'ercast,' 
They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 

Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion. 
The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys  :  so  I  will  begin 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din  ; 
Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest-hue 
About  old  forests  ;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber  ;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly  steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours, 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write. 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimm'd  and  white, 
Hide  in  deep  herbage ;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary, 
See  it  half-finish'd :  but  let  Autumn  bold, 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold, 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION. 


Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 

And  now  at  once,  adventuresome^  I  send 

My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness : 

There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress 

My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  1  may  speed 

Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 

Upon  the  sides  of  Latmos  was  outspread 
A  mighty  forest ;   for  the  moist  earth  fed 
So  plenteously  all  weed-hidden  roots 
Into  o'erhanging  boughs,  and  precious  fruits. 
And  it  had  gloomy  shades,  sequester'd  deep, 
Where  no  man  went ;  and  if  from  shepherd's  keep 
A  lamb  stray 'd  far  a-down  those  inmost  glens, 
Never  again  saw  he  the  happy  pens 
Whither  his  brethren,  bleating  with  content, 
Over  the  hills  at  every  night- fall  went. 
Among  the  shepherds  'twas  believed  ever, 
That  not  one  fleecy  lamb  which  thus  did  sever 
From  the  white  flock,  but  pass'd  unworried 
By  any  wolf,  or  pard  with  prying  head. 
Until  it  came  to  some  unfooted  plains 
VVhere  fed  the  herds  of  Pan  :  ay,  great  his  gains 
Who  thus  one  lamb  did  lose.     Paths  there  were  many, 
Winding  through  palmy  fern,  and  rushes  fenny, 
And  ivy  banks  ;  all  leading  pleasantly 
To  a  wide  lawn,  whence  one  could  only  see 
Stems  thronging  all  around  between  the  swell 
Of  tuft  and  slanting  branches  :  who  could  tell 
The  freshness  of  the  space  of  heaven  above, 
Edged  round  with  dark  tree  tops  ?  through  which  a  dove 
Would  often  beat  its  wings,  and  often  too 
A  little  cloud  would  move  across  the  blue. 


ENDYMION.  [book  i. 


Full  in  the  middle  of  this  pleasantness 
There  stood  a  marble  altar,  with  a  tress 
Of  flowers  budded  newly  ;  and  the  dew 
Had  taken  fairy  phantasies  to  strew 
Daisies  upon  the  sacred  sward  last  eve, 
And  so  the  dawned  light  in  pomp  receive. 
For  'twas  the  morn  :  Apollo's  upward  fire 
Made  every  eastern  cloud  a  silvery  pyre 
Of  brightness  so  unsullied,  that  therein 
A  melancholy  spirit  well  might  win 
Oblivion,  and  melt  out  his  essence  fine 
Into  the  winds  :  rain-scented  eglantine 
Gave  temperate  sweets  to  that  well-wooing  sun  ; 
The  lark  was  lost  in  him  ;  cold  springs  had  run 
To  warm  their  chilliest  bubbles  in  the  grass  ; 
Man's  voice  was  on  the  mountains  ;  and  the  mass 
Of  nature's  lives  and  wonders  pulsed  tenfold, 
To  feel  this  sun-rise  and  its  glories  old. 

Now  while  the  silent  workings  of  the  dawn 
Were  busiest,  into  that  self-same  lawn 
All  suddenly,  with  joyful  cries,  there  sped 
A  troop  of  little  children  garlanded  ; 
Who  gathering  round  the  altar,  seem'd  to  pry 
Earnestly  round  as  wishing  to  espy 
Some  folk  of  holiday  :  nor  had  they  waited 
For  many  moments,  ere  their  ears  were  sated 
With  a  faint  breath  of  music,  which  even  then 
Fill'd  out  its  voice,  and  died  away  again. 
Within  a  little  space  again  it  gave 
Its  airy  swellings,  with  a  gentle  wave, 
To  light-hung  leaves,  in  smoothest  echoes  breaking 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION. 


Through  copse-cUd  valleys, — ere  their  death,  o'ertaking 
The  surgy  murmurs  of  the  lonely  sea. 

And  now,  as  deep  into  the  wood  as  we 
Might  mark  a  lynx's  eye,  there  glimmer'd  light 
Fair  faces  and  a  rush  of  garments  white, 
Plainer  and  plainer  showing,  till  at  last 
Into  the  widest  alley  they  all  past, 
Making  directly  for  the  woodland  altar. 
O  kindly  muse !  let  not  my  weak  tongue  falter 
In  telling  of  this  goodly  company, 
Of  their  old  piety,  and  of  their  glee  : 
But  let  a  portion  of  ethereal  dew 
Fall  on  my  head,  and  presently  unmew 
My  soul ;  that  I  may  dare,  in  wayfaring. 
To  stammer  wliere  old  Chaucer  used  to  sing. 

Leadhig  the  way,  young  damsels  danced  along. 
Bearing  the  burden  of  a  shepherd's  song  ; 
Each  having  a  white  wicker,  overbrimm'd 
With  April's  tender  younglings:  next,  vvell  trimm'd, 
A  crowd  of  shepherds  with  as  sunburnt  looks 
As  may  be  read  of  in  Arcadian  books ; 
Such  as  sat  listening  round  Apollo's  pipe, 
When  the  great  deity,  for  earth  too  ripe, 
Let  his  divinity  o'erflowing  die 
In  music,  through  the  vales  of  Thessaly  ; 
Some  idly  trail'd  their  sheep-hooks  on  the  ground, 
And  some  kept  up  a  shrilly  mellow  sound 
With  ebon-tipped  flutes  :  close  after  these, 
Now  coming  from  beneath  the  forest  trees, 
A  venerable  priest  full  soberly. 
Begirt  with  ministering  looks  :  alway  his  eye 

2* 


10  ENDYMION.  [book  i. 


Steadfast  upon  the  matted  turf  he  kept, 

And  after  him  his  sacred  vestments  swept. 

From  his  right  hand  there  swung  a  vase,  milk-white, 

Of  mingled  wine,  out-sparkling  generous  light ; 

And  in  his  left  he  held  a  basket  full 

Of  all  sweet  herbs  that  searching  eye  could  cull : 

Wild  thyme,  and  valley-lilies  whiter  still 

Than  Leda's  love,  and  cresses  from  the  rill. 

His  aged  head,  crowned  with  beechen  wreath, 

Seem'd  like  a  poll  of  ivy  in  the  teeth 

Of  winter  hoar.     Then  came  another  crowd 

Of  shepherds,  lifting  in  due  time  aloud 

Their  share  of  the  ditty.     After  them  appear'd, 

Up-follow'd  by  a  multitude  that  rear'd 

Their  voices  to  the  clouds,  a  fair  wrought  car 

Easily  rolling  so  as  scarce  to  mar 

The  freedom  of  three  steeds  of  dapple  brown  : 

Who  stood  therein  did  seem  of  great  renown 

Among  the  throng.     His  youth  was  fully  blown. 

Showing  like  Ganymede  to  manhood  grown  ; 

And,  for  those  simple  times,  his  garments  were 

A  chieftain  king's :  beneath  his  breast,  half  bare, 

Was  hung  a  silver  bugle,  and  between 

His  nervy  knees  there  lay  a  boar-spear  keen. 

A  smile  was  on  his  countenance  ;  he  seem'd 

To  common  lookers-on,  like  one  who  dream'd 

Of  idleness  in  groves  Elysian  : 

But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 

A  lurking  trouble  in  his  nether  lip, 

And  see  that  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip 

Through  his  forgotten  hands  :  then  would  they  sigh, 

And  think  of  yellow  leaves,  of  owlets'  cry, 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION.  '  11 

Of  logs  piled  solemnly. — Ah,  well-a-day, 
Why  should  our  young  Endymion  pine  away  ! 

Soon  the  assembly,  in  a  circle  ranged, 
Stood  silent  round  the  shrine:  each  look  was  changed 
To  sudden  veneration  :  women  meek 
Beckon'd  their  sons  to  silence ;  while  each  cheek 
Of  virgin  bloom  paled  gently  for  slight  fear. 
Endymion  too,  without  a  forest  peer, 
Stood,  wan,  and  pale,  and  with  an  awed  face, 
Among  his  brothers  of  the  mountain  chase. 
In  midst  of  all,  the  venerable  priest 
Eyed  them  with  joy  from  greatest  to  the  least, 
And,  after  lifting  up  his  aged  hands. 
Thus  spake  he  :  "  Men  of  Latmos  !  shepherd  bands  ! 
Whose  care  it  is  to  guard  a  thousand  flocks : 
Whether  descended  from  beneath  the  rocks 
That  overtop  your  mountains ;  whether  come 
From  valleys  where  the  pipe  is  never  dumb  ; 
Or  from  your  swelling  downs,  where  sweet  air  stirs 
Blue  hare-bells  lightly,  and  where  prickly  furze 
Buds  lavish  gold  ;  or  ye,  whose  precious  charge 
Nibble  their  fill  at  ocean's  very  marge. 
Whose  mellow  reeds  are  touch'd  with  sounds  forlorn 
By  the  dim  echoes  of  old  Triton's  horn  : 
Mothers  and  wives  !  who  day  by  day  prepare 
The  scrip,  with  needments,  for  the  mountain  air ; 
And  all  ye  gentle  girls  who  foster  up 
Udderless  lambs,  and  in  a  little  cup 
Will  put  choice  honey  for  a  favor'd  youth : 
Yea,  every  one  attend  !  for  in  good  truth 
Our  vows  are  wanting  to  our  great  god  Pan. 
Are  not  our  lowing  heifers  sleeker  than 


12  ENDYMION.  [book  i. 

Night-swollen  mushrgoms  ?     Are  not  our  wide  plains 
Speckled  with  countless  fleeces  !     Have  not  rains 
Green'd  over  April's  lap  !     No  howling  sad 
Sickens  our  fearful  ewes ;  and  we  have  had 
Great  bounty  from  Endymion  our  lord. 
The  earth  is  glad  :  the  merry  lark  has  pour'd 
His  early  song  against  yon  breezy  sky, 
That  spreads  so  clear  o'er  our  solemnity." 

Thus  ending,  on  the  shrine  he  heap'd  a  spire 
Of  teeming  sweets,  enkindling  sacred  fire  ; 
Anon  he  stain'd  the  thick  and  spongy  sod 
With  wine,  in  honor  of  the  shepherd-god. 
Now  while  the  earth  was  drinking  it,  and  while 
Bay  leaves  were  crackling  in  the  fragrant  pile, 
And  gummy  frankincense  was  sparkling  bright 
'Neath  smothering  parsley,  and  a  hazy  light 
Spread  greyly  eastward,  thus  a  chorus  sang  : 

"  O  thou,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness ; 
Who  lovest  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken  ; 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit,  and  hearken 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth, 
Bethinking  thee,  how  melancholy'loath 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thou  now. 
By  thy  love's  milky  brow  ! 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION.  13 

By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan  ! 

"  O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles. 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms  :  O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripen'd  fruitage  ;  yellow-girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs  ;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossom'd  beans  and  poppied  corn  ; 
The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn, 
To  sing  for  thee  ;  low  creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness ;   pent  up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings ;  yea,  the  fresh  budding  year 
All  its  completions — be  quickly  near, 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O  forester  divine  ! 

"  Thou,  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service  ;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping  fit ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewilder'd  shepherds  to  their  path  again  ; 
Or  to  ti'ead  breathless  round  the  frothy  main, 
And'^gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  naiads'  cells, 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping  ; 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping. 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 


14  ENDYMION.  [book  i. 


With  silvery  oak-apples,  and  fir-cones  brown — 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  king  ! 

"  O  Hearkener  to  tne  loud-clapping  shears, 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating :  Winder  of  the  horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender  corn 
Anger  our  huntsman  :  Breather  round  our  farms, 
To  keep  off  mildews,  and  all  weather  harms : 
Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds. 
That  come  a-swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors  : 
Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see, 
Great  son  of  Dryope, 

The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows ! 

"  Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings  ;  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven, 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain :  be  still  the  leaven. 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth. 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal — a  new  birth  ; 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity  ; 
A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea  ; 
An  element  filling  the  space  between  ; 
An  unknown — but  no  more :  we  humbly  screen 
With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bending, 
And  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven-rending. 
Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  Psean, 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  !" 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION.  15 

Even  while  they  brought  the  burden  to  a  close, 
A  siiout  from  the  whole  multitude  arose, 
That  linger'd  in  the  air  like  dying  rolls 
Of  abrupt  thunder,  when  Ionian  shoals 
Of  dolphins  bob  their  noses  through  the  brine. 
Meantime,  on  shady  levels,  mossy  fine. 
Young  companies  nimbly  began  dancing 
To  the  swift  treble  pipe,  and  humming  string. 
Ay,  those  fair  living  forms  swam  heavenlj' 
To  tunes  forgotten — out  of  memory  : 
Fair  creatures  !  whose  young  children's  children  bred 
Thermopylae  its  heroes — not  yet  dead. 
But  in  old  marbles  ever  beautiful. 
High  genitors,  unconscious  did  they  cull 
Time's  sweet  first-fruits — they  danced  to  weariness, 
And  then  in  quiet  circles  did  they  press 
The  hillock  turf,  and  caught  the  latter  end 
Of  some  strange  history,  potent  to  send 
A  young  mind  from  its  bodily  tenement. 
Or  they  might  watch  the  quoit-pitchers,  intent 
On  either  side  ;  pitying  the  sad  death 
Of  Hyacinthus,  when  the  cruel  breath 
Of  Zephyr  slew  him, — Zephyr  penitent, 
Who  now,  ere  Phcebus  mounts  the  firmament, 
Fondles  the  flower  amid  the  sobbing  rain. 
The  archers  too,  upon  a  wider  plain, 
Beside  the  feathery  whizzing  of  the  shaft. 
And  the  dull  twanging  bowstring,  and  the  raft 
Branch  down  sweeping  from  a  tall  ash  top, 
Call'd  up  a  thousand  thoughts  to  envelope 
Those  who  would  watch.     Perhaps,  the  trembling  knee 
And  frantic  gape  of  lonely  Niobe, 
Poor,  lonely  Niobe  !  when  her  lovely  young 


ir,  ENDYMION.  [book  i. 


Were  dead  and  gone,  and  her  caressing  tongue 

Lay  a  lost  thing  upon  her  paly  lip, 

And  very,  very  deadliness  did  nip 

Her  motherly  cheeks.     Aroused  from  this  sad  mood 

By  one,  who  at  a  distance  loud  halloo'd, 

Uplifting  his  strong  bow  into  the  air, 

Many  might  after  brighter  visions  stare  : 

After  the  Argonauts,  in  blind  amaze 

Tossing  about  on  Nep'une's  restless  ways, 

Until,  from  the  horizon's  vaulted  side, 

There  shot  a  golden  splendor  far  and  wide. 

Spangling  those  million  poutings  of  the  brine 

With  quivering  ore  :  't  was  even  an  awful  shine 

From  the  exaltation  of  Apollo's  bow  ; 

A  heavenly  beacon  in  their  dreary  wo. 

Who  thus  were  ripe  for  high  contemplating. 

Might  turn  their  steps  towards  the  sober  ring 

Where  sat  Endymion  and  the  aged  priest 

'Mong  shepherds  gone  in  eld,  whose  looks  increased 

The  silvery  setting  of  their  mortal  star. 

There  they  discoursed  upon  the  fragile  bar 

That  keeps  us  from  our  homes  ethereal  ; 

And  what  our  duties  there  :  to  nightly  call 

Vesper,  the  beauty-crest  of  summer  weather  ; 

To  summon  all  the  downiest  clouds  together 

For  the  sun's  purple  couch ;  to  emulate 

In  ministering  the  potent  rule  of  fate 

With  speed  of  fire-tail'd  exhalations  ; 

To  tint  her  pallid  cheek  with  bloom,  wlio  cons 

Sweet  poesy  by  moonlight :  besides  these, 

A  "world  of  other  unguess'd  offices. 

Anon  they  wander'd,  by  divine  converse. 

Into  Elysium  ;  vying  to  rehearse 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION.  17 

Each  one  his  own  anticipated  bliss. 

One  felt  lieart-certain  that  he  could  not  miss 

His  quick-gone  love,  among  fair  blossom'd  boughs, 

Where  every  zephyr-sigh  pouts,  and  endows 

Her  lips  with  music  for  the  welcoming. 

Another  wish'd,  'mid  that  eternal  spring, 

To  meet  his  rosy  child,  with  feathery  sails. 

Sweeping,  eye-earnestly,  through  almond  vales  : 

Who,  suddenly,  should  stoop  through  the  smooth  wiud. 

And  with  the  balmiest  leaves  his  temples  bind  ; 

And,  ever  after,  through  those  regions  be 

His  messenger,  his  little  Mercury. 

Some  were  athirst  in  soul  to  see  again 

Their  fellow  huntsmen  o'er  the  wide  champaign 

In  times  long  past ;  to  sit  with  them,  and  talk 

Of  all  the  chances  in  their  earthly  walk  ; 

Comparing,  joyfully,  their  plenteous  stores 

Of  happiness,  to  when  upon  the  moors. 

Benighted,  close  they  huddled  from  the  cold. 

And  shared  their  famish'd  scrips.     Thus  all  out-told 

Their  fond  imaginations, — saving  him 

Whose  eye-lids  curtain'd  up  their  jewels  dim, 

Endymion  :  yet  hourly  had  he  striven 

To  hide  the  cankering  venom,  that  had  riven 

His  fainting  recollections.     Now  indeed 

His  senses  had  swoon'd  off:  he  did  not  heed 

The  sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low. 

Or  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  wo. 

Or  anxious  calls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms. 

Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms : 

But  in  the  self-same  fixed  trance  he  kept, 

Like  one  who  on  the  earth  had  never  stept. 


18  ENDYMION.  [book  r. 

Ay,  even  as  dead-still  as  a  marble  man, 
Frozen  in  that  old  tale  Arabian. 

Who  whispers  him  so  pantingly  and  close  ? 
Peona,  his  sweet  sister  :  of  all  those, 
His  friends,  the  dearest.     Hushing  signs  she  made, 
And  breathed  a  sister's  sorrow  to  persuade 
A  yielding  up,  a  cradling  on  her  care. 
Her  eloquence  did  breathe  away  the  curse  : 
She  led  him,  like  some  midnight  spirit  nurse 
Of  happy  changes  in  emphatic  dreams, 
Along  a  path  between  two  little  streams, — 
Guarding  his  forehead,  with  her  round  elbow. 
From  low-grown  branches,  and  his  footsteps  slow 
From  stumbling  over  stumps  and  hillocks  small ; 
Until  they  came  to  where  these  streamlets  fall. 
With  mingled  bubblings  and  a  gentle  rush. 
Into  a  river,  clear,  brimful,  and  flush 
With  crystal  mocking  of  the  trees  and  sky. 
A  little  shallop,  floating  there  hard  by, 
Pointed  its  beak  over  the  fringed  bank ; 
And  soon  it  lightly  dipt,  and  rose,  and  sank. 
And  dipt  again,  with  the  young  couple's  weight, — 
Peona  guiding,  through  the  water  straight. 
Towards  a  bowery  island  opposite  ; 
Which  gaining  presently,  she  steered  right 
Into  a  shady,  fresh,  and  ripply  cove, 
Where  nested  was  an  arbor,  overwove 
By  many  a  summer's  silent  fingering  ; 
To  whose  cool  bosom  she  was  used  to  bring. 
Her  playmates,  with  their  needle  broidery, 
And  minstrel  memories  of  times  gone  by. 


BOOK  i]  ENDYiMION.  19 

So  she  was  gently  glad  to  see  him  laid 
Under  her  favorite  bovver's  quiet  shade, 
On  her  own  couch,  new  made  of  flower-leaves, 
Dried  carefully  on  the  cooler  side  of  sheaves 
When  last  the  sun  his  autumn  tresses  shook, 
And  the  tann'd  harvesters  rich  armfuls  took. 
Soon  was  he  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest : 
But,  ere  it  crept  upon  him,  he  had  prest 
Peona's  busy  hand  against  his  lips, 
And  still,  a-sleeping,  held  her  finger-tips 
In  tender  pressure.     And  as  a  willow  keeps 
A  patient  watch  over  the  stream  that  creeps 
Windingly  by  it,  so  the  quiet  maid 
Held  her  in  peace :  so  that  a  whispering  blade 
Of  grass,  a  wailful  gnat,  a  bee  bustling 
Down  in  the  blue-bells,  or  a  wren  light  rustling 
Among  sere  leaves  and  twigs,  might  all  be  heard. 

O  magic  sleep  !  O  comfortable  bird, 
That  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 
Till  it  is  hush'd  and  smooth  !  O  unconfined 
Restraint !  imprison'd  liberty  !  great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy. 
Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled  caves, 
Echoing  grottoes,  full  of  tumbling  waves 
And  moonlight ;  ay,  to  all  the  mazy  world 
Of  silvery  enchantment ! — who,  upfurl'd 
Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing  a  triple  hour, 
But  renovates  and  lives  ? — Thus,  in  the  bower, 
Endymion  was  calm'd  to  life  again. 
Opening  his  eyelids  with  a  healthier  brain. 
He  said  :  "  I  feel  this  thine  endearing  love 
All  through  my  bosom  :  thou  art  as  a  dove 


20  ENDYMION.  [book  i. 


Trembling  its  closed  eyes  and  sleeked  wings 
About  me  ;  and  the  pearliest  dew  not  brings 
Such  moi-ning  incense  from  the  fields  of  May, 
As  do  those  brighter  drops  that  twinkling  stray 
From  those  kind  eyes, — the  very  home  and  haunt 
Of  sisterly  affection.     Can  I  want 
Aught  else,  aught  nearer  heaven,  than  such  tears  ? 
Yet  dry  thera  up,  in  bidding  hence  all  fears 
That,  any  longer,  I  will  pass  my  days 
Alone  and  sad.     No,  I  will  once  more  raise 
My  voice  upon  the  mountain-heights  ;  once  more 
Make  my  horn  parley  from  their  foreheads  hoar : 
Again  my  trooping  hounds  their  tongues  shall  loll 
Around  the  breathed  boar  :  again  I'll  poll 
The  fair-grown  yew-tree,  for  a  chosen  bow : 
And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low, 
Again  I  '11  linger  in  a  sloping  mead 
To  hear  the  speckled  thrushes,  and  see  feed 
Our  idle  sheep.     So  be  thou  cheered,  sweet ! 
And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  entreat 
My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course." 

Hereat  Peona,  in  their  silver  source, 
Shut  her  pure  sorrow-drops  with  glad  exclaim, 
And  took  a  lute,  from  which  there  pulsing  came 
A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 
In  which  her  voice  should  wander.     'T  was  a  lay 
More  subtle  cadenced,  more  forest  wild 
Than  Dryope's  lone  lulling  of  her  child ; 
And  nothing  since  has  floated  in  the  aii 
So  mournful  strange.     Surely  some  influence  rare 
Went,  spiritual,  through  the  damsel's  hand  ; 
For  still,  with  Delphic  emphasis,  she  spann'd 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION.  21 

The  quick  invisible  strings,  even  though  she  saw 

Endymion's  spirit  melt  away  and  thaw 

Before  the  deep  intoxication. 

But  soon  she  came,  with  sudden  burst,  upon 

Her  self-possession — swung  the  lute  aside, 

And  earnestly  said  :  "  Brother,  't  is  vain  to  hide 

That  thou  dost  know  of  things  mysterious. 

Immortal,  starry  ;  such  alone  could  thus 

Weigh  down  thy  nature.     Hast  thou  sinn'd  in  aught 

Offensive  to  the  heavenly  powers  ?     Caught 

A  Paphian  dove  upon  a  message  sent  ? 

The  deathful  bow  against  some  deer-herd  bent. 

Sacred  to  Dian  ?  Haply,  thou  hast  seen 

Her  naked  limbs  among  the  alders  green  ; 

And  that,  alas !  is  death.     No,  I  can  trace 

Something  more  high  perplexing  in  thy  face !" 

Endymion  look'd  at  her,  and  press'd  her  hand, 
And  said,  "  Art  thou  so  pale,  who  wast  so  bland 
And  merry  in  our  meadows  ?     How  is  this  ? 
Tell  me  thine  ailment :  tell  me  all  amiss  ! 
Ah  !  thou  hast  been  unhappy  at  the  change 
Wrought  suddenly  in  me.     What  indeed  more  strange  ? 
Or  more  complete  to  overwhelm  surmise  ? 
Ambition  is  no  sluggard  :  't  is  no  prize. 
That  toiling  years  would  put  within  my  grasp, 
That  I  have  sigh'd  for:  with  so  deadly  gasp 
No  man  e'er  panted  for  a  mortal  love. 
So  all  have  set  my  heavier  grief  above 
These  things  which  happen.     Rightly  have  they  done  : 
I,  who  still  saw  the  horizontal  sun 
Heave  his  broad  shoulder  o'er  the  edge  of  the  world, 
Out-facing  Lucifer,  and  then  had  hurl'd 


22  ENDYMION.  [book  i. 

My  spear  aloft,  as  signal  for  the  chase — 
I,  who,  for  very  sport  of  heart,  would  race 
With  my  own  steed  from  Araby  ;  pluck  down 
A  vulture  from  his  towery  perching  ;  frown 
A  lion  into  growling,  loth  retire- 
To  lose,  at  once,  all  my  toil-breeding  fire, 
And  sink  thus  low  !  but  I  will  ease  ray  breast 
Of  secret  grief,  here  in  this  bowery  nest. 

"  This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky, 
Till  it  begins  to  progress  silverly 
Around  the  western  border  of  the  wood, 
Whence,  from  a  certain  spot,  its  winding  flood 
Seems  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent  moon  : 
And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  June, 
Had  I  been  used  to  pass  my  weary  eves ; 
The  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 
So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power, 
And  I  could  witness  his  most  kingly  hour, 
When  "he  doth  tighten  up  the  golden  reins, 
And  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains 
His  snorting  four.     Now,  when  liis  chariot  last 
Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-lion  cast, 
There  blossoni'd  suddenly  a  magic  bed 
Of  sacred  dittany,  and  poppies  red : 
At  which  I  wonder'd  greatly,  knowing  well 
That  but  one  night  had  wrought  this  flowery  spell  ; 
And,  sitting  down  close  by,  began  to  muse 
What  it  might  mean.     Perliaps,  thought  I,  Morpheus, 
In  passing  here,  his  owlet  pinions  shook ; 
Or,  it  may  be,  ere  matron  Night  uptook 
Her  ebon  urn,  young  Mercury,  by  stealth. 
Had  dipp'd  his  rod  in  it :  such  garland  wealth 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION.  23 

Came  not  by  common  growth.     Thus  on  I  thought, 

Until  my  head  was  dizzy  and  distraught. 

Moreover,  through  the  dancing  poppies  stole 

A  breeze  most  softly  lulling  to  my  soul ; 

And  shaping  visions  all  about  my  sight 

Of  colors,  wings,  and  bursts  of  spangly  light ; 

The  which  became  more  strange,  and  strange,  and  dim, 

And  then  were  gulf 'd  in  a  tumultuous  swim  : 

And  then  I  fell  asleep.     Ah,  can  I  tell 

The  enchantment  that  afterwards  befel  ? 

Yet  it  was  but  a  dream :  yet  such  a  dream 

That  never  tongue,  although  it  overteem 

With  mellow  utterance,  like  a  cavern-spring, 

Could  figure  out  and  to  conception  bring 

All  I  beheld  and  felt.     Methought  I  lay 

Watching  the  zenith,  where  the  milky  way 

Among  the  stars  in  virgin  splendor  pours  ; 

And  travelling  my  eye,  until  the  doors 

Of  heaven  appear'd  to  open  for  my  flight, 

I  became  loath  and  fearful  to  alight, 

From  such  high  soaring  by  a  downward  glance  : 

So  kept  me  steadfast  in  that  airy  trance, 

Spreading  imaginary  pinions  wide.* 

When,  presently,  the  stars  began  to  glide, 

And  faint  away  before  my  eager  view  : 

At  which  I  sigh'd  that  1  could  not  pursue, 

And  dropp'd  my  vision  to  the  horizon's  verge ; 

And  lo  !  from  opening  clouds,  I  saw  emerge 

The  loveliest  moon,  that  ever  silver'd  o'er 

A  shell  for  Neptune's  goblet ;  she  did  soar 

So  passionately  bright,  my  dazzled  soul 

Commingling  with  her  argent  spheres  did  roll 

Through  clear  and  cloudy,  even  when  she  went 


2t  ENDYMION.  [book  I. 


At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapory  tent — 

Whereat,  methought,  the  lidless-eyed  train 

Of  planets  all  were  in  the  blue  again. 

To  commune  with  those  orbs,  once  more  I  raised 

My  sight  right  upward :  but  it  was  quite  dazed 

By  a  bright  something,  sailing  down  apace, 

Making  me  quickly  veil  my  eyes  and  face : 

Again  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities, 

Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies  ! 

Whence  that  completed  form  of  all  completeness? 

Whence  came  that  high  perfection  of  all  sweetness  ? 

Speak,  stubborn  earth,  and  tell  me  where,  O  where 

Hast  thou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  hair  ? 

Not  oat-sheaves  drooping  in  the  western  sun ; 

Not — thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister  !  let  me  shun 

Such  foUying  before  thee — yet  she  had. 

Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me  mad ; 

And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and  braided, 

Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded, 

Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and  orbed  brow ; 

The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not  how, 

With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes. 

Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  faintest  sighs, 

That,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings 

And  plays  about  its  fancy,  till  the  stings 

Of  human  neighborhood  envenom  all. 

Unto  what  awful  power  shall  I  call  ? 

To  what  high  fane  ? — Ah  !  see  her  hovering  feet. 

More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely  sweet 

Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she  rose 

From  out  her  cradle  shell.     The  wind  out-blows 

Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ; 

'T  is  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  nuilion 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION.  25 

Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  wert  to  shed, 

Over  the  darkest,  lushest  blue-bell  bed, 

Handfuls  of  daisies." — "  Endymion,  how  strange  ! 

Dream  within  dream  !" — "  She  took  an  airy  range. 

And  then,  towards  me,  like  a  very  maid, 

Came  blushing,  waning,  willing,  and  afraid, 

And  press'd  me  by  the  hand  :  Ah  !  't  was  too  much  ; 

Methought  I  fainted  at  the  charmed  touch. 

Yet  held  my  recollection,  even  as  one 

Who  dives  three  fathoms  where  the  waters  run 

Gurgling  in  beds  of  coral :  for  anon, 

I  felt  upmounted  in  that  region 

Where  falling  stars  dart  their  artillery  forth. 

And  eagles  struggle  with  the  buffeting  north 

That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone  ; — 

Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone. 

But  lapp'd  and  lull'd  along  the  dangerous  sky. 

Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journeying  high, 

And  straightway  into  frightful  eddies  swoop'd  ; 

Such  as  aye  muster  where  grey  time  has  scoop'd 

Huge  dens  and  caverns  in  a  mountain's  side  : 

There  hollow  sounds  aroused  me,  and  I  sigh'd 

To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my  bliss — 

I  was  distracted  ;  madly  did  I  kiss 

The  wooing  arms  which  held  me,  and  did  give 

My  eyes  at  once  to  death  :  but  't  was  to  live, 

To  take  in  draughts  of  life  from  the  gold  fount 

Of  kind  and  passionate  looks ;  to  count,  and  count 

The  moments,  by  some  greedy  help  that  seem'd 

A  second  self,  that  each  might  be  redeem'd 

And  plunder'd  of  its  load  of  blessedness. 

A.h,  desperate  mortal  !  I  even  dared  to  press 

Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip, 

PART  I.  3 


20  ENDYMION.  [book  i. 

And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 

Into  a  warmer  air:  a  moment  more. 

Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.     There  was  store 

Of  newest  joys  upon  that  alp.     Sometimes 

A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  limes, 

Loiter'd  around  us  ;  then  of  honey  cells, 

Made  delicate  from  all  white-flower  bells ; 

And  once,  above  the  edges  of  our  nest. 

An  arch  face  peep'd, — an  Oread  as  I  guess'd. 

"  Why  did  I  dream  that  sleep  o'er-power'd  me 
In  midst  of  all  this  heaven  ?     Why  not  see. 
Far  off*,  the  shadows  of  his  pinions  dark. 
And  stare  them  from  me  ?     But  no,  like  a  spark 
That  needs  must  die,  although  its  little  beam 
Reflects  upon  a  diamond,  my  sweet  dream 
Fell  into  nothing — into  stupid  sleep. 
And  so  it  was,  until  a  gentle  creep, 
A  careful  moving  caught  my  waking  ears, 
And  up  I  started :  Ah  !  my  sighs,  my  tears. 
My  clenched  hands  ; — for  lo  !  the  poppies  hung 
Dew-dabbled  on  their  stalks,  the  ouzel  sung 
A  heavy  ditty,  and  the  sullen  day 
Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away, 
With  leaden  looks :  the  solitary  breeze 
Bluster'd,  and  slept,  and  its  wild  self  did  tease 
With  wayward  melancholy ;  and  I  thought, 
Mark  me,  Peona !  that  sometimes  it  brought 
Faint  fare-thcc-wells,  and  sigh-shrilled  adieus ! — 
Away  I  wander'd — all  the  pleasant  hues 
Of  heaven  and  earth  had  faded  :  deepest  shades 
Were  deepest  dungeons  ;  heaths  and  sunny  glades 
Were  full  of  pestilent  light ;  our  taintless  riils 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION.  27 


Seein'd  sooty,  and  o'ersprcad  with  upturn'd  gills 

Of  dying  fish  ;  the  vermeil  rose  had  blown 

In  frightful  scarlet,  and  its  thorns  outgrown 

Like  spiked  aloe.     If  an  innocent  bird 

Before  my  heedless  footsteps  stirr'd,  and  stirr'd 

In  little  journeys,  I  beheld  in  it 

A  disguised  demon,  missioned  to  knit 

My  soul  with  under  darkness  ;  to  entice  ' 

My  stumblings  down  some  monstrous  precipice : 

Therefore  I  eager  follow'd,  and  did  curse 

The  disappointiTient.     Time,  that  aged  nurse, 

Rock'd  me  to  patience.     Now,  thank  gentle  heaven  ! 

Tliese  things,  with  all  their  comfortings,  are  given 

To  my  down-sunken  hours,  and  with  thee. 

Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing  sea 

Of  weary  life," 

Thus  ended  he,  and  both 
Sat  silent :  for  the  maid  was  very  loath 
To  answer ;  feeling  well  that  breathed  words 
Would  all  be  lost,  unheard,  and  vain  as  swords 
Against  the  enchased  crocodile,  or  leaps 
Of  grasshoppers  against  the  sun.     She  weeps, 
And  wonders  ;  struggles  to  devise  some  blame ; 
To  put  on  such  a  look  as  would  say,  Shame 
On  this  poor  weakness  f  but,  for  all  her  strife, 
She  could  as  soon  have  crush'd  away  the  life 
From  a  sick  dove.     At  length,  to  break  the  pause. 
She  said  with  trembling  chance  :  "  Is  this  the  cause  ? 
This  all  ?     Yet  it  is  strange,  and  sad,  alas ! 
That  one  who  through  this  middle  earth  should  pass 
Most  like  a  sojourning  demi-god,  and  leave 
His  name  upon  the  harp-string,  should  achieve 


28  ENDYMION.  [book  i. 

No  higher  bard  than  simple  maidenhood, 

Singing  alone,  and  fearfully, — how  the  blood 

Left  his  young  cheek  ;  and  how  he  used  to  stray 

He  knew  not  where  :  and  how  he  would  say,  nay, 

If  any  said  't  was  love :  and  yet 't  was  love  ; 

What  could  it -be  but  love  ?     How  a  ringdove 

Let  fall  a  sprig  of  yew-tree  in  his  path 

And  how  he  died :  and  then,  that  love  doth  scathe 

The  gentle  heart,  as  northern  blasts  do  roses  ; 

And  then  the  ballad  of  his  sad  life  closes 

With  sighs,  and  an  alas  ! — Endymion  ! 

Be  rather  in  the  trumpet's  mouth, — anon 

Among  the  winds  at  large — that  all  may  hearken ! 

Although,  before  the  crystal  heavens  darken,     • 

I  watch  and  dote  upon  the  silver  lakes 

Pictured  in  western  cloudiness,  that  takes    • 

The  semblance  of  gold  rocks  and  bright  gold  sands, 

Islands,  and  creeks,  and  amber-fretted  strands 

With  horses  prancing  o'er  them,  palaces 

And  towers  of  amethyst, — would  I  so  tease 

My  pleasant  days,  because  I  could  not  mount 

Into  those  regions  ?     The  Morphean  fount 

OP  that  fine  element  that  visions,  dreams, 

And  fitful  whims  of  sleep  are  made  of,  streams 

Into  its  airy  channels  with  so  subtle. 

So  thin  a  breathing,  not  the  spider's  shuttle, 

Circled  a  million  times  within  the  space 

Of  a  swallow's  nest-door,  could  delay  a  trace, 

A  tinting  of  its  quality  :  how  light 

Must  dreams  themselves  be  ;  seeing  they're  more  slight 

Then  the  mere  nothing  that  engenders  them  ! 

Then  wherefore  sully  the  entrusted  gem 

Of  high  and  noble  life  with  thoughts  so  sick  ? 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION.  29 


Why  pierce  high- fronted  honor  to  the  ciuick 
For  nothing  but  a  dream  ?"     Hereat  the  youth 
Look'd  up  :  a  conflicting  of  shame  and  ruth 
Was  in  his  plaited  brow  :  yet  his  eyelids 
Widen'd  a  little,  as  when  Zephyr  bids 
A  little  breeze  to  creep  between  the  fans 
Of  careless  butterflies  :  amid  his  pains 
He  seem'd  to  taste  a  drop  of  manna-dew, 
Full  palatable  ;  and  a  color  grew 
Upon  his  cheek,  while  thus  he  lifeful  spake. 

"  Peona  !  ever  have  I  long'd  to  slake 
My  thirst  for  the  world's  praises  :  nothing  base, 
No  merely  slumberous  phantasm,  could  unlace 
The  stubborn  canvas  for  my  voyage  prepared — 
Though  now  't  is  tatter'd  ;  leaving  my  bark  bared 
And  sullenly  drifting :  yet  my  higher  hope 
Is  of  too  wide,  too  rainbow-large  a  scope. 
To  fret  at  myriads  of  earthly  wrecks. 
Wherein  lies  happiness  ?     In  that  which  becks 
Our  ready  minds  to  fellowship  divine, 
Ji.  fellowship  with  essence  ;  till  we  shine, 
Full  alchemized,  and  free  of  space.     Behold 
The  clear  religion  of  heaven  !     Fold 
A  rose  leaf  round  thy  finger's  faperness, 
And  soothe  thy  lips  :  hist !  when  the  airy  stress 
Of  music's  kiss  impregnates  the  free  winds. 
And  with  a  sympathetic  touch  unbinds 
^Eolian  magic  from  their  lucid  wonibs  : 
Then  old  songs  waken  from  enelouded  tombs  ; 
Old  ditties  sigh  above  their  father's  grave  ; 
Ghosts  of  melodious  prophesyings  rave 
Round  every  spot  where  trod  Apollo's  foot ; 


30  ENDYMION.  [book  i. 


Bronze  clarions  awake,  and  faintly  bruit, 

Where  long  ago  a  giant  battle  was  ; 

And,  from  the  turf,  a  lullaby  doth  pass 

In  every  place  where  infant  Orpheus  slept. 

Feel  we  these  things ! — that  moment  have  we  stept 

Into  a  sort  of  oneness,  and  our  state 

Is  like  a  floating  spirit's.     But  there  are 

Richer  entanglements,  enthralments  far 

More  self-destroying,  leading,  by  degrees, 

To  the  chief  intensity  ;  the  crown  of  these 

Is  made  of  love  and  friendship,  and  sits  high 

Upon  the  forehead  of  humanity. 

All  its  more  ponderous  and  bulky  worth 

Is  friendship,  whence  there  ever  issues  forth 

A  steady  splendor  ;  but  at  the  tip-top. 

There  hangs  by  unseen  film,  an  orbed  drop 

Of  light,  and  that  is  love  :  its  influence 

Thrown  in  our  eyes  genders  a  novel  sense, 

At  which  we  start  and  fret ;  till  in  the  end, 

Melting  into  its  radiance,  we  blend, 

Mingle,  and  so  become  a  part  of  it, — 

Nor  with  aught  else  can  our  souls  interknit 

So  wingedly  :  when  we  combine  therewith, 

Life's  self  is  nourish'd  by  its  proper  pith. 

And  we  are  nurtured  like  a  pelican  brood. 

Ay,  so  delicious  is  the  unsating  food. 

That  men,  who  might  have  towor'd  in  the  van 

Of  all  the  congregated  world,  to  fan 

And  winnow  from  the  coming  step  of  time 

All  chaff  of  custom,  wipe  away  all  slime 

Left  by  men-slugs  and  human  serpentry, 

Have  been  content  to  let  occasion  die, 

Whilst  they  did  sleep  in  love's  elysium. 


BOOK  i]  ENDYMION.  31 

And,  trul}',  I  would  rather  be  struck  dumb, 

Than  speak  against  this  ardent  listlessness  : 

For  I  liave  ever  thought  tliat  it  might  bless 

The  world  with  benefits  unknowingly  ; 

As  does  the  nightingale,  up-perched  high, 

And  cloister'd  among  cool  and  bunched  leaves — 

She  sings  but  to  her  love,  nor  e'er  conceives 

How  tiptoe  Night  holds  back  her  dark-grey  hood. 

Just  so  may  love,  although  't  is  understood 

The  mere  commingling  of  passionate  breath, 

Produce  more  than  our  searching  witnesseth  : 

What  1  know  not :  but  who,  of  men,  can  tell 

That  flowers  would  bloom,  or  that  green  fruit  would  swell 

To  melting  pulp,  that  fish  would  have  bright  mail', 

The  earth  its  dower  of  river,  wood,  and  vale, 

The  meadows  runnels,  runnels  pebble-stones, 

The  seed  its  harvest,  or  the  lute  its  tones, 

Tones  ravishment,  or  ravishment  its  sweet, 

If  human  souls  did  never  kiss  and  greet? 

•'  Now,  if  this  earthly  love  has  power  to  make 
Men's  being  mortal,  immortal ;  to  shake 
Ambition  from  their  memories,  and  brim 
Their  measure  of  content ;  what  merest  whim. 
Seems  all  this  poor  endeavor  after  fame, 
To  one,  who  keeps  within  his  steadfast  aim 
A  love  immortal,  an  immortal  too. 
Look  not  so  wildered  ;  for  these  things  are  true, 
And  never  can  be  born  of  atomies 
That  buzz  about  our  slumbers,  like  brain-flies, 
Leaving  us  fancy-sick.     No,  no,  I'm  sure, 
My  restless  spirit  never  could  endure 
To  brood  so  long  upon  one  luxury, 


32  ENDYMION.  [book  i. 

Unless  it  did,  though  fearfully,  espy 

A  hope  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

My  sayings  will  the  less  obscured  seem 

When  I  have  told  thee  how  my  waking  sight 

Has  made  me  scruple  whether  that  same  night 

Was  pass'd  in  dreaming.     Hearken,  sweet  Peona  ! 

Beyond  the  matron-temple  of  Latona, 

Which  we  should  see  but  for  these  darkening  boughs, 

Lies  a  deep  hollow,  from  whose  ragged  brows 

Bushes  and  trees  do  lean  all  round  athwart, 

And  meet  so  nearly,  that  with  wings  outraught, 

And  spreaded  tail,  a  vulture  could  not  glide 

Past  them,  but  he  must  brush  on  every  side. 

Some  moulder'd  steps  lead  into  this  cool  cell, 

Far  as  the  slabbed  margin  of  a  well. 

Whose  patient  level  peeps  its  crystal  eye 

Right  upward,  through  the  bushes,  to  the  sky. 

Oft  have  I  brought  thee  flowers,  on  their  stalks  set 

Like  vestal  primroses,  but  dark  velvet 

Edges  them  round,  and  they  have  golden  pits  : 

'T  was  there  I  got  them,  from  the  gaps  and  slits 

In  a  mossy  stone,  that  sometimes  was  my  seat. 

When  all  above  was  faint  with  mid-day  heat. 

And  there  in  strife  no  burning  thoughts  to  heed, 

I  'd  bubble  up  the  water  through  a  reed  ; 

So  reaching  back  to  boyhood  :  make  me  ships 

Of  moulted  feathers,  touchwood,  alder  chips, 

With  leaves  stuck  in  them  ;  and  the  Neptune  be 

Of  their  petty  ocean.     Oftener  heavily. 

When  lovelorn  hours  had  left  me  less  a  child, 

I  sat  contemplating  the  figures  wild 

Of  o'er-head  clouds  melting  the  mirror  through. 

Upon  a  day,  while  thus  I  watch.'d,  by  flew 


BOOK  I.]  ENDYMION.  33 

A  cloudy  Cupid,  with  his  bow  and  quiver  ; 

So  plainly  character'd,  no  breeze  would  shiver 

The  happy  chance  :  so  happy,  I  was  fain 

To  follow  it  upon  the  open  plain, 

And,  therefore,  was  just  going  ;  when,  behold  ! 

A  \\onder,  fair  as  any  I  have  told — 

The  same  bright  face  I  tasted  in  my  sleep. 

Smiling  in  the  clear  well.     My  heart  did  leap 

Through  the  cool  depth. — It  moved  as  if  to  flee — 

I  started  up,  when  lo !  rcfreshfuUy, 

There  came  upon  my  face,  in  plenteous  showers, 

Dew-drops,  and  dewy  buds,  and  leaves,  and  flowers, 

Wrapping  all  objects  from  my  smother'd  sight, 

Bathing  my  spirit  in  a  new  delight. 

Ay,  such  a  breathless  honey-feel  of  bliss 

Alone  preserved  nio  from  the  drear  abyss 

Of  death,  for  the  fair  form  had  gone  again. 

Pleasure  is  oft  a  visitunt :  "but  pain 

Clings  cruelly  to  us,  like  the  gnawing  sloth 

On  the  deer's  tender  haunches  :  late,  and  loth, 

'T  is  scared  away  by  slow-returning  pleasure. 

How  sickening,  how  dark  the  dreadful  leisure 

Of  weaiy  days,  made  deeper  exquisite, 

By  a  foreknowledge  of  unslumbrous  night ! 

Like  sorrow  came  upon  me,  heavier  still. 

Than  when  I  wander'd  from  the  poppy  hill : 

And  a  whole  age  of  lingering  moments  crept 

Sluggishly  by,  ere  more  contentment  swept 

Away  at  once  the  deadly  yellow  spleen. 

Yes,  thrice  have  I  this  fair  enchantment  seen  ; 

Once  more  been  tortured  with  renewed  life. 

When  last  the  wintry  gusts  gave  over  strife 

With  the  conquering  sun  of  spring,    and  left  the  skies 


34  ENDYMION.  [rook  i. 

Warm  and  serene,  but  yet  with  moisten'd  eyes 

In  pity  of  the  shatter'd  infant  buds, — 

That  time  thou  didst  adorn,  with  amber  studs, 

My  hunting-cap,  because  I  laugh'd  and  smiled. 

Chatted  with  thee,  and  many  days  exiled 

All  torment  from  my  breast ; — 't  was  even  then, 

Straying  about,  yet,  coop'd  up  in  the  den 

Of  helpless  discontent, — hurling  my  lance 

From  place  to  place,  and  following  at  chance. 

At  last,  by  hap,  through  some  young  trees  it  struck, 

And,  plashing  among  bedded  pebbles,  stuck 

In  the  middle  of  a  brook, — whose  silver  ramble 

Down  twenty  little  falls  through  reeds  and  bramble, 

Tracing  along,  it  brought  me  to  a  cave. 

Whence  it  ran  brightly  forth,  and  white  did  lave 

The  nether  sides  of  mossy  stones  and  rock, — 

'Mong  which  it  gurgled  blithe  adieus,  to  mock 

Its  own  sweet  grief  at  parting.     Overhead, 

Hung  a  lush  screen  of  drooping  weeds,  and  spread 

Thick,  as  to  curtain  up  some  wood-nymph's  home. 

'  Ah  !  impious  mortal,  whither  do  I  roam  !' 

Said  I,  low  voiced  :  *  Ah,  whither  !  'Tis  the  grot 

Of  Proserpine,  when  Hell,  obscure  and  hot. 

Doth  her  resign  :  and  where  her  tender  hands 

She  dabbles  on  the  cool  and  sluicy  sands  :    ■ 

Or  't  is  the  cell  of  Echo,  where  she  sits. 

And  babbles  thorough  silence,  till  her  wits 

Are  gone  in  tender  madness,  and  anon, 

Faints  into  sleep,  with  many  a  dying  tone 

Of  sadness.     O  that  she  would  take  my  vows. 

And  breathe  them  sighingly  among  the  boughs, 

To  sue  her  gentle  ears  for  whose  fair  head, 

Daily,  I  pluck  sweet  flowerets  from  their  bed, 


BOOK  i]  ENDYMION.  35 

And  weave  them  dyingly — send  honey-wliispers 
Round  every  leaf,  that  all  those  gentle  lispers 
May  sigh  my  love  unto  her  pitying  ! 

0  charitable  Echo  !  hear,  and  sing 

This  ditty  to  her  ! — tell  her ' — So  I  stay'a 

j\Iy  foolish  tongue,  and  listening,  half  afraid, 

Stood  stupefied  with  my  own  empty  folly, 

And  blushing  for  the  freaks  of  melancholy. 

Salt  tears  were  coming,  when  I  heard  my  name 

Most  fondly  lipp'd,  and  then  these  accents  came  : 

'  Endymion  !  the  cave  is  secreter 

Than  the  isle  of  Delos.     Echo  hence  shall  stir 

No  sighs  but  sigh-warm  kisses,  or  light  noise 

Of  thy  combing  hand,  the  while  it  travelling  cloys 

And  trembles  through  my  labyrinthine  hair." 

At  that  oppress'd,  I  hurried  in. — Ah  !  where     - 

Are  those  swift  moments  !     Whither  are  they  fled  ? 

1  '11  smile  no  more,  Peona  ;  nor  will  wed 
Sorrow,  the  way  to  death  ;  but  patiently 
Bear  up  against  it :  so  farewell,  sad  sigh ; 
And  come  instead  demurest  meditation. 
To  occupy  me  wholly,  and  to  fashion 

My  pilgrimage  for  the  world's  dusky  brink. 
No  more  will  I  count  over,  link  by  link, 
My  chain  of  grief :    no  longer  strive  to  find 
A  half-forgetfulness  in  mountain  wind 
Blustering  about  my  ears  :  ay,  thou  shalt  see, 
Dearest  of  sisters,  what  my  life  shall  be  ; 
What  a  calm  round  of  hours  shall  make  my  days. 
There  is  a  paly  flame  of  hope  that  plays 
Where'er  I  look  :  but  yet,  I'll  say  't  is  naught — 
And  here  I  bid  it  die.     Have  not  I  caught, 
Already,  a  more  healthy  countenance  ? 


36  ENDTMION.  [book  i. 

By  this  the  sun  is  setting  ;  we  may  chance 
Meet  some  of  our  near-dwellers  with  my  car." 

This  said,  he  rose,  faint-smiling  like  a  star 
Through  autumn  mists,  and  took  Peona's  liand  : 
Xhey  stept  into  the  boat,  and  launch'd  from  land. 


BOOK  Ti.]  ENDYMION.  37 


BOOK    II. 


O  SOVEREIGN  power  of  love !  O  grief!  O  balm  ! 

All  records,  saving  thine,  come  cool,  and  calm, 

And  shadowy,  througli  the  mist  of  passed  years : 

For  others,  good  or  bad,  hatred  and  tears 

Have  become  indolent ;  but  touching  thine. 

One  sigh  doth  echo,  one  poor  sob  doth  pine. 

One  kiss  brings  honey-dew  from  buried  days. 

The  woes  of  Troy,  towers  smothering  o'er  their  blaze, 

StitF-holden  shields,  far-piercing  spears,  keen  blades, 

Struggling,  and  blood,  and  shrieks — all  dimly  fades 

Into  some  backward  corner  of  the  brain  ; 

Yet,  in  our  very  souls,  we  feel  amain 

The  close  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  sweet. 

Hence,  pageant  history  !  hence,  gilded  cheat ! 

Swart  planet  in  the  universe  of  deeds  ! 

Wide  sea  !  that  one  continuous  murmur  breeds 

Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory  ! 

Many  old  rotten-timber'd  boats  the  re  be 

Upon  thy  vaporous  bosom,  magnified 

To  goodly  vessels ;  many  a  sail  of  pride, 

And  golden-keel'd,  is  left  unlaunch'd  and  dry. 

But  wherefore  this  ?     What  care,  though  owl  did  fly 

About  the  great  Athenian  admiral's  mast, 

What  care,  though  striding  Alexander  past 


38  ENDYMION.  [book  ii. 

The  Indus  with  his  Macedonian  numbers  ? 
Though  old  Ulysses  tortured  from  his  slumbers 
The  glutted  Cyclops,  what  care  ? — Juliet  leaning 
Amid  her  window-flowers, — sighing, — weaning 
Tenderly  her  fancy  from  its  maiden-snow, 
Doth  more  avail  than  these  :  the  silver  flow 
Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 
Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den, 
Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 
Than  the  death-day  of  empires.     Fearfully 
Must  such  conviction  come  upon  his  head, 
Who,  thus  far,  discontent,  has  dared  to  tread, 
Without  one  muse's  smile,  or  kind  behest, 
The  path  of  love  and  poesy.     But  rest. 
In  chafing  restlessness,  is  yet  more  drear 
Than  to  be  crush'd,  in  striving  to  uprear 
Love's  standard  on  the  battlements  of  song. 
So  once  more  days  and  nights  aid  me  along. 
Like  legion'd  soldiers. 

Brain-sick  shepherd-prince ! 
What  promise  hast  thou  faithful  guarded  since 
The  day  of  sacrifice  ?     Or,  have  new  sorrows 
Come  with  the  constant  dawn  upon  thy  morrows  ? 
Alas  !  'tis  his  old  grief.     For  many  days, 
Has  he  been  wandering  in  uncertain  ways : 
Through  wilderness,  and  woods  of  mossed  oaks ; 
Counting  his  wo-worn  minutes,  by  the  strokes 
Of  the  lone  wood-cutter ;  and  listening  still. 
Hour  after  hour,  to  each  lusli-leaved  rill. 
Now  he  is  sitting  by  a  shady  spring, 
And  elbow-deep  with  feverous  fingering 
Stems  the  upbursting  cold :  a  wild  rose-tree 


BOOK  11.]  ENDYMION.  39 

Pavilions  him  in  bloom,  and  he  doth  see 

A  bud  which  snares  his  fancy  :  lo  !  but  now 

He  plucks  it,  dips  its  stalk  in  the  water :  how  ! 

It  swells,  it  buds,  it  flowers  beneath  his  sight ; 

And,  in  the  middle,  there  is  softly  pight 

A  golden  butterfly  ;  upon  whose  wings 

There  must  be  surely  character'd  strange  things. 

For  with  wide  eye  he  wonders,  and  smiles  oft. 

Lightly  this  little  herald  flew  aloft, 
Follow'd  by  glad  Endymion's  clasped  hands; 
Onward  it  flies.     From  languor's  sullen  bands 
His  limbs  are  loosed,  and  eager,  on  he  hies 
Dazzled  to  trace  it  in  the  sunny  skies. 
It  seem'd  he  flew,  the  way  so  easy  was  ; 
And  like  a  new-born  spirit  did  he  pass 
Through  the  green  evening  quiet  in  the  sun, 
O'er  many  a  heath,  through  many  a  woodland  dun, 
Through  buried  paths,  where  sleepy  twilight  dreams 
The  summer  time  away.     One  track  unseams 
A  wooded  cleft,  and,  far  away,  the  blue 
Of  ocean  fades  upon  him  ;  then,  anew, 
He  sinks  adown  a  solitary  glen, 
Where  there  was  never  sound  of  mortal  men, 
Saving,  perhaps,  some  snow-light  cadences 
Melting  to  silence,  when  upon  the  breeze 
Some  holy  bark  let  forth  an  anthem  sweet, 
To  cheer  itself  to  Delphi.     Still  his  feet 
Went  swift  beneath  the  merry-winged  guide. 
Until  it  reach'd  a  splashing  fountain!s  side 
That,  near  a  cavern's  mouth,  for  ever  pour'd, 
Unto  the  temperate  air :  then  high  it  soar'd, 
,   And,  downward,  suddenly  began  to  dip, 


40  ENDYMION.  [book  ii. 

As  if,  athirst  with  so  much  toil,  'twould  sip 
The  crystal  spout-head  :  so  it  did,  with  touch 
Most  delicate,  as  though  afraid  to  smutch 
Even  with  mealy  gold  the  waters  clear. 
But,  at  that  very  touch,  to  disappear 
So  fairy-quick,  was  strange  !     Bewildered, 
Endymion  sought  around,  and  shook  each  bed 
Of  covert  flowers  in  vain  ;  and  then  he  flung 
Himself  along  the  grass.     What  gentle  tongue, 
What  whisperer  disturb'd  his  gloomy  I'est  / 
It  was  a  nymph  uprisen  to  the  breast 
In  the  fountain's  pebbly  margin,  and  she  stood 
'Mong  lilies,  like  the  youngest  of  the  brood. 
To  him  her  dripping  hand  she  softly  kist. 
And  anxiously  began  to  plait  and  twist 
Her  ringlets  round  her  fingers,  saying :  "  Youth  ! 
Too  long,  alas,  hast  thou  starved  on  the  ruth, 
The  bitterness  of  love  :  too  long  indeed, 
Seeing  thou  art  so  gentle.     Could  I  weed 
Thy  soul  of  care,  by  heavens,  I  would  ofler 
All.  the  bright  riches  of  my  crystal  coffer 
To  Amphitrite  ;  all  my  clear-eyed  fish, 
Golden,  or  rainbow-sided,  or  purplish, 
Vermilion-tail'd,  or  finn'd  with  silvery  gauze  ; 
Yea,  or  my  veined  pebble-floor,  that  draws 
A  virgin-light  to  the  deep  ;  my  grotto  sands, . 
Tawny  and  gold,  oozed  slowly  from  far  lands 
By  my  diligent  springs  ;  my  level  lilies,  shells, 
My  charming-rod,  my  potent  river  spells ; 
Yes,  everything,  even  to  the  pearly  cup 
Meander  gave  me, — for  I  bubbled  up 
To  fainting  creatures  in  a  desert  wild. 
But  wo  is  mo,  I  am  but  as  a  child 


BOOK  n.]  ENDYMION.  41 

To  gladden  thee  ;  and  all  I  dare  to  say 

Is,  that  I  pity  thee ;  that  on  this  day 

I've  been  thy  guide ;  that  thou  must  wander  far 

In  other  regions,  past  the  scanty  bar 

To  mortal  steps,  before  thou  canst  be  ta'cn 

From  every  wasting  sigh,  from  every  pain. 

Into  the  gentle  bosom  of  thy  love. 

Why  it  is  thus,  one  knows  in  heaven  above  : 

But,  a  poor  Naiad,  I  guess  not.     Farewell ! 

I  have  a  ditty  for  my  hollow  cell." 

Hereat  she  vanish'd  from  Endymion's  gaze, 
Who  brooded  o'er  the  water  in  amaze : 
The  dashing  fount  pour'd  on,  and  where  its  pool 
Lay,  half-asleep,  in  grass  and  rushes  cool, 
Quick  waterflies  and  gnats  were  sporting  still, 
And  fish  were  dimpling,  as  if  good  nor  ill 
Had  fallen  out  that  hour.     The  wanderer, 
Holding  his  forehead,  to  keep  off  the  burr 
Of  smothering  fancies,  patiently  sat  down  ; 
And,  while  beneath  the  evening's  sleepy  frown 
Glow-worms  began  to  trim  their  starry  lamps, 
Thus  breathed  he  to  himself:  "  Whoso  encamps 
To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight, 
O  what  a  wretch  is  he  !  and  when  't  is  his, 
After  long  toil  and  travelling,  to  miss 
The  kernel  of  his  hopes,  how  more  than  vile ! 
Yet,  for  him  there's  refreshment  even  in  toil : 
Another  city  doth  he  set  about. 
Free  from  the  smallest  pebble-bead  of  doubt 
That  he  will  seize  on  trickling  honey-combs  : 
Alas  !  he  finds  them  dry  :  and  then  he  foams, 
And  onward  to  another  city  speeds. 


42  ENDYMION.     .  [book  n. 


But  this  is  human  life :  the  war,  the  deeds, 

The  disappointment,  the  anxiety, 

Imagination's  struggles,  far  and  nigh. 

All  human ;  bearing  in  themselves  this  good, 

That  they  are  still  the  air,  the  subtle  food, 

To  make  us  feel  existence,  and  to  show 

How  quiet  death  is.     Where  soil  is  men  grow, 

Whether  to  weeds  or  flowers  ;  but  for  me, 

There  is  no  depth  to  strike  in  :  I  can  sec 

Naught  earthly  worth  my  compassing  ;  so  stand 

Upon  a  misty,  jutting  head  of  land — 

Alone  ?  No,  no ;  and  by  the  Orphean  lute,  . 

When  mad  Eurydice  is  listening  to  't, 

I  'd  rather  stand  upon  this  misty  peak. 

With  not  a  thing  to  sigh  for,  or  to  seek, 

But  the  soft  shadow  of  my  thrice-seen  love, 

Than  be — I  care  not  what.     O  meekest  dove 

Of  heaven  !  O  Cynthia,  ten  times  bright  and  fair ! 

From  thy  blue  throne,  now  filling  all  the  air, 

Glance  but  one  little  beam  of  temper'd  light 

Into  my  bosom,  that  the  dreadful  might 

And  tyranny  of  love  be  somewhat  scared  ! 

Yet  do  not  so,  sweet  queen  ;  one  torment  spared, 

Would  give  a  pang  to  jealous  misery, 

Woi'se  than  the  torment's  self:  but  rather  tie 

Large  wings  upon  my  shoulders,  and  point  out 

My  love's  far  dwelling.     Though  the  playful  rout 

Of  Cupids  shun  thee,  too  divine  art  thou, 

Too  keen  in  beauty,  for  thy  silver  prow 

Not  to  have  dipp'd  in  love's  most  gentle  stream. 

O  be  propitious,  nor  severely  deem 

My  madness  impious ;  for,  by  all  the  stars 

That  tend  thy  bidding,  I  do  think  the  bars 


BOOK  II.]  ENDYMION.  43 

That  kept  my  spirit  in  are  burst— that  I 

Am  sailing  with  thee  through  the  dizzy  sky  ! 

How  beautiful  thou  art !     The  world  how  deep  ! 

How  tremulous-dazzlingly  the  wheels  sweep 

Around  their  axle  !     Then  these  gleaming  reins, 

How  lithe  !     When  this  thy  chariot  attains 

Its  airy  goal,  haply  some  bower  veils 

Those  twilight  eyes  ?     Those  eyes  ! — my  spirit  fails  ; 

Dear  goddess,  help  !  or  the  wide-gaping  air 

Will  gulf  me — help  !  " — At  this,  with  maddcn'd  plare, 

And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips,  he  stood  ; 

Like  old  Deucalion  mountain'd  o'er  the  flood, 

Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn. 

And,  but  from  the  deep  cavern  there  M-as  borne 

A  voice,  he  had  been  froze  to  senseless  stone  ; 

Nor  sigh  of  his,  nor  plaint,  nor  passion "d  moan 

Had  more  been  heard.     Thus  swell'd  it  forth  :  "  Descend, 

Young  mountaineer  !  descend  where  alleys  bend 

Into  the  sparry  hollows  of  the  world  ! 

Oft  hast  thou  seen  bolts  of  the  thunder  hurl'd 

As  from  thy  threshold  ;  day  by  day  hast  been 

A  little  lower  than  the  chilly  sheen 

Of  icy  pinnacles,  and  dipp'dst  thine  arms 

Into  the  deadening  ether  that  still  charms 

Their  marble  being  :  now,  as  deep  profound 

As  those  are  high,  descend !     He  ne'er  is  crown'd 

With  immortality,  who  fears  to  follow 

Where  airy  voices  lead  :  so  through  the  hollow, 

The  silent  mysteries  of  earth,  descend  !  " 

He  heard  but  the  last  words,  nor  could  contend 
One  moment  in  reflection  :  for  he  fled 


44  ENDYMION.  [book  ii. 

Into  the  fearful  deep,  to  hide  his  head 

From  the  clear  moon,  the  trees,  and  coming  madness. 

'Twas  far  too  strange  and  wonderful  for  sadness  ; 
Sharpening,  by  degrees,  his  appetite 
To  dive  into  the  deepest.     Dark,  nor  light, 
The  region  ;  nor  bright,  nor  sombre  wholly, 
But  mingled  up  ;  a  gleaming  melancholy  ;   . 
A  dusky  empire  and  its  diadems  ; 
One  faint  eternal  eventide  of  gems. 
Ay,  millions  sparkled  on  a  vein  of  gold, 
Along  whose  track  the  prince  quick  footsteps  told, 
With  all  its  lines  abrupt  and  angular : 
Out-shooting  sometimes,  like  a  meteor-star. 
Through  a  vast  autre  ;  then  the  metal  woof, 
Like  Vulcan's  rainbow,  with  some  monstrous  roof 
Curves  hugely  :  now,  far  in  the  deep  abyss, 
It  seems  an  angry  lightning,  and  doth  hiss 
Fancy  into  belief :  anon  it  leads 
Through  winding  passages,  where  sameness  breeds 
Vexing  conceptions  of  some  sudden  change  ; 
Whether  to  silver  grots,  or  giant  range 
Of  sapphire  columns,  or  fantastic  bridge 
Athwart  a  flood  of  crystal.     On  a  ridge 
Now  fareth  he,  that  o'er  the  vast  beneath 
Towers  like  an  ocean-cliff',  and  whence  he  seet  i 
A  hundred  waterfalls,  whose  voices  come 
But  as  the  murmuring  surge.     Chilly  and  numb 
Ilis  bosom  grew,  when  first  he,  far  away, 
Descried  an  orbed  diamond,  set  to  fray 
Old  Darkness  from  his  throne  :  'twas  like  the  sun 
Uprisen  o'er  chaos  ;  and  with  such  a  stun 
Came  the  amazement,  that,  absorb'd  in  it, 


BOOK  II.]  ENDYMION.  45 

He  saw  not  fiercer  wonders — past  the  wit 

Of  any  spirit  to  tell,  but  one  of  those 

Who,  when  this  planet's  sphering  time  doth  close, 

Will  be  its. high  remembrancers  :  who  they  ? 

The  mighty  ones  who  have  made  eternal  day 

For  Greece  and  England,     While  astoni<5hment 

With  deep-drawn  sighs  was  quieting,  he  went 

Into  a  marble  gallery,  passing  through 

A  mimic  temple,  so  complete  and  true 

Its  sacred  custom,  that  he  well  nigh  fear'd 

To  search  it  inwards  ;  whence  far  off  appear'd. 

Through  a  long  pillar'd  vista,  a  fair  shrine, 

And,  just  beyond,  on  light  tiptoe  divine, 

A  quiver'd  Dian.     Stepping  awfully, 

The  youth  approach'd  ;  oft  turning  his  veil'd.eye 

Down  sidelong  aisles,  and  into  niches  old  : 

And,  when  more  near  against  the  marble  cold 

He  had  touch'd  his  forehead,  he  began  to  thread 

All  courts  and  passages,  where  silence  dead, 

Roused  by  his  whispering  footsteps,  murmur'd  faint  : 

And  long  he  traversed  to  and  fro,  to  acquaint 

Himself  with  every  mystery,  and  awe  ; 

Till,  weary,  he  sat  down  before  the  maw 

Of  a  wide  outlet,  fathomless  and  dim, 

To  wild  uncertainty  and  shadows  grim. 

There,  when  new  wonders  ceased  to  float  before. 

And  thoughts  of  self  came  on,  how  crude  and  sore 

The  journey  homeward  to  habitual  self! 

A  mad-pursuing  of  the  fog-born  elf. 

Whose  flitting  lantern,  through  rude  nettle-brier, 

Cheats  us  into  a  swamp,  into  a  fire. 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  hated  thing. 


4G  ENDYMION.  [book  n. 

What  misery  most  drowningly  doth  sing 

In  lone  Endymion's  ear,  now  he  has  caught 

The  goal  of  consciousness  ?     Ah,  't  is  the  thought, 

The  deadly  feel  of  solitude  :  for  lo  ! 

He  cannot  see  the  heavens,  nor  the  flow 

Of  rivers,  nor  hill-flowers  running  wild 

In  pink  and  purple  chequer,  nor,  up-piled. 

The  cloudy  rack  slow  journeying  in  the  west. 

Like  herded  elephants  ;  nor  felt,  nor  prcst 

Cool  grass,  nor  tasted  the  fresh  slumberous  air  ; 

But  far  from  such  companionship  to  wear 

An  unknown  time,  surcharged  with  grief,  away, 

Was  now  his  lot.     And  must  he  patient  stay. 

Tracing  fantastic  figures  with  his  spear  ? 

"  No  !"  exclaim'd  he,  "  why  should  I  tarry  here  ?" 

No  !  loudly  echoed  times  innumerable. 

At  which  he  straightway  started,  and  'gan  tell 

His  paces  back  into  the  temple's  chief; 

Warming  and  glowing  strong  in  the  belief 

Of  help  from  Dian  :  so  that  when  again 

He  caught  her  airy  form,  thus  did  he  plain. 

Moving  more  near  the  while.     "  O  Haunter  chaste 

Of  river  sides,  and  woods,  and  heathy  waste, 

Where  with  thy  silver  bow  and  arrows  keen 

Art  thou  now  forested  ?     O  woodland  Queen, 

What  smoothest  air  thy  smoother  forehead  woos  ! 

Whei-e  dost  thou  listen  to  the  wide  halloos 

Of  thy  disparted  nymphs  ?     Through  what  dark  tree 

Glimmers  thy  crescent !     Whereso'er  it  be, 

'Tis  in  the  breath  of  heaven :  thou  dost  taste 

Freedom  as  none  can  taste  it,  nor  dost  waste 

Thy  loveliness  in  dismal  elements  ; 

But,  finding  in  our  green  earth  sweet  contents, 


BOOK  II.]  ENDYMION.  47 


There  livest  blissfully.     Ah,  if  to  thee 
It  feels  Elysian,  how  rich  to  me, 
An  exiled  mortal,  sounds  its  pleasant  name  ! 
Within  my  breast  there  lives  a  choking  flame — 
O  let  me  cool  it  among  the  zephyr-boughs ! 
A  homeward  fever  parches  up  my  tongue — 
O  let  me  slake  it  at  the  running  springs  ! 
Upon  my  ear  a  noisy  nothing  rings — 
O  let  me  once  more  hear  the  linnet's  note  ! 
Before  mine  eyes  thick  films  and  shadows  float — 
O  let  me  'noint  them  with  the  heaven's  light ! 
Dost  thou  now  lave  thy  feet  and  ankles  white  ? 
O  think  how  sweet  to  me  the  freshening  sluice  ! 
Dost  thou  now  please  thy  thirst  with  berry-juice  ? 
O  think  how  this  dry  palate  would  rejoice  ! 
If  in  soft  slumber  thou  dost  hear  my  voice, 
O  think  how  1  should  love  a  bed  of  flowers  ! — 
Young  goddess  !  let  me  see  my  native  bowers  ! 
Deliver  me  from  this  rapacious  deep  !" 

Thus  ending  loudly,  as  he  would  o'erleap 
His  destiny,  alert  he  stood  :  but  when 
Obstinate  silence  came  heavily  again, 
Feeling  about  for  its  old  couch  of  space 
And  airy  cradle,  lowly  bow'd  his  face, 
Desponding,  o'er  the  marble  floor's  cold  thrill. 
But  't  was  not  long ;  for,  sweeter  than  the  rill 
To  its  old  channel,  or  a  swollen  tide 
To  margin  sallows,  where  the  leaves  he  spied, 
And  flowers,  and  wreaths,  and  ready  myrtle  crowns 
Up  heaping  through  the  slab :  refreshment  drowns 
Itself,  and  strives  its  own  delights  to  hide — 
Nor  in  one  spot  alone ;  the  floral  pride 


48  ENDYMION.  [book  ii 

In  a  long  whispering  birth  enchanted  grew 
Before  his  footsteps;  as  when  heaved  anew 
Old  ocean  rolls  a  lengthen'd  wave  to  the  shore, 
Down  whose  green  back  the  short-lived  foam,  all  hoar, 
Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence. 

Increasing  still  in  heart,  and  pleasant  sense, 
Upon  his  fairy  journey  on  he  hastes  ; 
So  anxious  for  the  end,  he  scarcely  wastes 
One  moment  with  his  hand  among  the  sweets  ; 
Onward  he  goes — he  stops — his  bosom  beats 
As  plainly  in  his  ear,  as  the  faint  charm 
Of  which  the  throbs  were  born.     This  still  alarm, 
This  sleepy  music,  forced  him  walk  tiptoe  : 
For  it  came  more  softly  than  the  east  could  blow 
Arion's  magic  to  the  Atlantic  isles; 
Or  than  the  west,  made  jealous  by  the  smiles 
Of  throned  Apollo,  could  breathe  back  the  lyi'e 
To  seas  Ionian  and  Tyrian. 

O  did  he  ever  live,  that  lonely  man, 
Who  loved — and  music  slew  not  ?     'T  is  the  pest 
Of  love,  that  fairest  joys  give  most  unrest ; 
That  things  of  delicate  and  tenderest  worth 
Are  swallow'd  all,  and  made  a  seared  dearth, 
By  one  consuming  flame :  it  doth  immerse 
And  suffocate  true  blessings  in  a  curse. 
Half-happy,  by  comparison  of  bliss, 
Is  miserable.     'Twas  even  so  with  this 
Dew-dropping  melody,  in  the  Carian's  ear  ; 
First  heaven,  then  hell,  and  then  forgotten  clear, 
Vanish'd  in  elemental  passion. 


BOOK  n.]  ENDYMION.  49 

And  down  some  swart  abysm  he  had  gone, 
Had  not  a  heavenly  guide  benignant  led 
To  where  thick  myrtle  branches,  'gainst  his  head 
Brushing,  awaken'd  :  then  the  sounds  again 
Went  noiseless  as  a  passing  noontide  rain 
Over  a  bower,  where  little  space  he  stood  ; 
For  as  the  sunset  peeps  into  a  wood, 
So  saw  he  panting  light,  and  towards  it  went 
Through  winding  alleys;  and  lo,  wonderment! 
Upon  soft  verdure  saw,  one  here,  one  there, 
Cupids  a  slumbering  on  their  pinions  fair. 

After  a  thousand  mazes  overgone, 
At  last,  with  sudden  step,  he  came  upon 
A  chamber,  myrtle-wall'd,  embower'd  high, 
Full  of  light,  incense,  tender  minstrelsy. 
And  more  of  beautiful  and  strange  beside : 
For  on  a  silken  coucli  of  rosy  pride, 
In  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 
Of  fondest  beauty  ;  fonder,  in  fair  sooth, 
Than  sighs  could  fatliom,  or  contentment  reach : 
And  coverlids  gold-tinted  like  the  peach, 
Or  ripe  October's  faded  marigolds, 
Fell  sleek  about  him  in  a  thousand  folds — 
Not  hiding  up  an  Apollonian  curve 
Of  neck  and  shoulder,  nor  the  tenting  swerve 
Of  knee  from  knee,  nor  ankles  pointing  light ; 
But  rather,  giving  them  to  the  fill'd  sight 
Officiously.     Sideway  his  face  reposed 
On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclosed. 
By  tenderest  pressure,  a  faint  damask  mouth 
To  slumbery  pout ;  just  as  the  morning  south 
Disparts  a  dew-lipp'd  rose.     Above  his  head, 

PART  I.  4 


50  ENDYMION.  [book  h. 

Four  lily  stalks  did  their  white  honors  wed 
To  make  a  coronal ;  and  round  him  grew 
All  tendrils  green,  of  every  bloom  and  hue 
Together  intertwined  and  tramell'd  fresh  : 
The  vine  of  glossy  sprout;  the  ivy  mesh, 
Shading  its  Ethiop  berries ;  and  woodbine. 
Of  velvet  leaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine  ; 
Convolvulus  in  streaked  vases  flush  ; 
The  creeper,  mellowing  for  an  autumn  blush  ; 
And  virgin's-bower,  trailing  airily  ; 
With  others  of  the  sisterhood.     Hard  by, 
Stood  serene  Cupids  watching  silently. 
One,  kneeling  to  a  lyre,  touch'd  the  strings, 
Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings ; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 
At  the  youth's  slumber;  while  another  took 
A  willow  bough,  distilling  odorous  dew, 
And  shook  it  on  his  hair ;  another  flew 
In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  fluttering- wise 
Rain'd  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes. 

At  these  enchantments,  and  yet  many  more, 
The  breathless  Latmian  wonder'd  o'er  and  o'er; 
Until  impatient  in  embarrassment, 
He  forthright  pass'd,  and  lightly  treading  went 
To  that  same  fealher'd  lyrist,  wlio  stisaightway, 
Smiling,  thus  whisper'd :  "  Though  from  upper  day 
Thou  art  a  wanderer,  and  thy  presence  here 
Might  seem  unholy,  be  of  happy  cheer  ! 
For  'tis  the  nicest  touch  of  human  honor,. 
When  some  ethereal  and  high- favoring  donor 
Presents  immortal  bowers  to  mortal  sense  ; 
As  now  H  is  done  to  thee,  Endymion.     Hence 


BOOK  u.]  ENDYMION.  61 

Was  I  in  no  wise  startled.     So  recline 

Upon  these  living  flowers.     Here  is  wine, 

Alive  with  sparkles — never,  I  aver, 

Since  Ariadne  was  a  vintager, 

So  cool  a  purple  :  taste  these  juicy  pears, 

Sent  me  by  sad  Vertumnus,  when  his  fears 

Were  high  about  Pomona :  here  is  cream, 

Deepening  to  richness  from  a  snowy  gleam  ; 

Sweeter  than  that  nurse  Amalthea  skimm'd 

For  the  boy  Jupiter :  and  here,  undimm'd 

By  any  touch,  a  bunch  of  blooming  plums 

Ready  to  melt  between  an  infant's  gums : 

And  here  is  manna  pick'd  from  Syrian  trees, 

In  starlight,  by  the  three  Hesperides. 

Feast  on,  and  meanwhile  I  will  let  thee  know 

Of  all  these  things  around  us."     He  did  so, 

Still  brooding  o'er  the  cadence  of  his  lyre  ; 

And  thus :  "  I  need  not  any  hearing  tire 

By  telling  how  the  sea-born  goddess  pined 

For  a  mortal  youth,  and  how  she  strove  to  bind 

Him  all  in  all  unto  her  doting  self. 

Who  would  not  be  so  prison'd  ?  but,  fond  elf. 

He  was  content  to  let  her  amorous  plea 

Faint  through  his  careless  arms ;  content  to  see 

An  unseized  heaven  dying  at  his  feet ; 

Content,  O  fool !  to  make  a  cold  retreat, 

When  on  the  pleasant  grass  such  love,  lovelorn, 

Lay  sorrowing ;  when  every  tear  was  born 

Of  diverse  passion  ;  when  her  lips  and  eyes 

Were  closed  in  sullen  moisture,  and  quick  sighs 

Came  vex'd  and  pettish  through  her  nostrils  small. 

Hush  !  no  e.xclaim — yet,  justly  might'st  thou  call 

Curses  upon  his  head. — I  was  half  glad, 


52  ENDYMION.  [book  n. 

But  my  poor  mistress  went  distract  and  mad, 

When  the  boar  tusk'd  him  :  so  away  she  flew 

To  Jove's  high  throne,  and  by  her  plainings  drew 

Immortal  tear-drops  down  the  thunderer's  beard; 

Whereon,  it  was  decreed  he  should  be  rear'd 

Each  sumtner-time  to  life.     Lo  !  this  is  he, 

That  same  Adonis,  safe  in  the  privacy 

Of  this  still  region  all  his  winter-sleep. 

Ay,  sleep ;   for  when  our  love-sick  queen  did  w  ecp 

Over  his  waned  corse,  the  tremulous  shower 

Heal'd  up  the  wound,  and,  with  a  bahny  power, 

Medicined  death  to  a  lengthen'd  drowsiness : 

The  which  she  fills  with  visions,  and  doth  dress 

In  all  this  quiet  luxury ;  and  hath  set 

Us  young  immortals,  without  any  let, 

To  watch  his  slumber  through.     'Tis  well  nigh  pass'd, 

Even  to  a  moment's  filling  up,  and  fast 

She  scuds  with  summer  breezes,  to  pant  through 

The  first  long  kiss,  warm  firstling,  to  renew 

Embower'd  sports  in  Cytherea's  isle. 

Look,  how  those  winged  listeners  all  this  while 

Stand  anxious  :  see  !  behold  !  " — This  clamant  word 

Broke  through  the  careful  silence ;  for  they  heard 

A  rustling  noise  of  leaves,  and  out  there  flutter'd 

Pigeons  and  doves  :  Adonis  something  mutter'd. 

The  while  one  hand,  that  erst  upon  his  thigh 

Lay  dormant,  moved  convulsed  and  gradually 

Up  to  his  forehead.     Then  there  was  a  hum 

Of  sudden  voices,  echoing,  "  Come  !  come  ! 

Arise  !  awake  !  Clear  summer  has  forth  walk'd 

Unto  the  clover-sward,  and  she  kas  talk'd 

Full  soothingly  to  every  nested  finch  : 

Rise,  Cupids !  or  we^ll  give  the  blue-bell  pinch 


BOOK  II.]  ENDYMION.  53 


To  your  dimpled  arms.     Once  more  sweet  life  begin !" 

At  this,  from  every  side  ihey  hurried  in, 

Rubbing  their  sleepy  eyes  with  lazy  wrists, 

And  doubling  overhead  tlieir  little  fists 

In  backward  yawns.     But  all  were  soon  alive ; 

For  as  delicious  wine  doth,  sparkling,  dive 

In  nectar'd  clouds  and  curls  through  water  fair, 

So  from  the  arbor  roof  down  swell'd  an  air 

Odorous  and  enlivening  ;  making  all 

To  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing,  and  loudly  call 

For  their  sweet  queen  :  when  lo  !  the  wreathed  green 

Disparted,  and  far  upward  could  be  seen 

Blue  heaven,  and  a  silver  car,  air-borne, 

Whose  silent  wheels,  fresh  wet  from  clouds  of  morn, 

Spun  off  a  drizzling  dew, — which  falling  chill 

On  soft  Adonis'  shouldei's,  made  him  still 

Nestle  and  turn  uneasily  about. 

Soon  were  the  white  doves  plain,  with  necks  stretch'd  out, 

And  silken  traces  lighten'd  in  descent ; 

And  soon,  returning  from  love's  banishment, 

Queen  Venus  leaning  downward  open-arm'd : 

Her  shadow  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  charm'd 

A  tumult  to  his  heart,  and  a  new  life 

Into  his  eyes.     Ah,  miserable  strife, 

But  for  her  comforting  !  unhappy  sight, 

But  meeting  her  blue  orbs !     Who,  who  can  write 

Of  these  first  minutes  ?     The  unchariest  muse 

To  embracements  warm  as  theirs  makes  coy  excuse. 

O  it  has  ruffled  every  spirit  there. 
Saving  love's  self,  who  stands  superb  to  share 
The  general  gladness  :  awfully  he  stands ; 
A  sovereign  quell  is  in  his  waving  hands ; 


54  EiNDYMION.  [book  n. 

No  sight  can  bear  the  lightning  of  his  bow  ; 

His  quiver  is  mysterious,  none  can  know 

What  themselves  think  of  it;   from  forth  his  eyes 

There  darts  strange  light  of  varied  hues  and  dyes : 

A  scowl  is  sometimes  on  his  brow,  but  who 

Look  full  upon  it  feel  anon  the  blue 

Of  his  fair  eyes  run  liquid  through  their  souls. 

Endymion  feels  it,  and  no  more  controls 

The  burning  prayer  within  him  ;  so,  bent  low, 

He  had  begun  a  plaining  of  his  wo. 

But  Venus,  bending  forward,  said  :  "  My  child, 

Favor  this  gentle  youth  ;   his  days  are  wild 

With  love — he — but  alas  !  too  well  I  see 

Thou  know'st  the  deepness  of  his  misery. 

Ah,  smile  not  so,  my  son :  I  tell  thee  true. 

That  when  through  heavy  hours  I  used  to  rue 

The  endless  sleep  of  this  new-born  Adon', 

This  stranger  aye  I  pitied.     For  upon 

A  dreary  morning  once  I  fled  away 

Into  the  breezy  clouds,  to  weep  and  pray 

For  this  my  love :  for  vexing  Mars  had  teased 

Me  even  to  tears :  thence,  when  a  little  eased, 

Down-looking,  vacant,  through  a  hazy  wood, 

I  saw  this  youth  as  he  despairing  stood  : 

Those  same  dark  curls  blown  vagrant  in  the  wind ; 

Those  same  full  fringed  lids  a  constant  blind 

Over  his  sullen  eyes :  I  saw  him  throw 

Himself  on  wither'd  leaves,  even  as  though 

Deatli  had  come  sudden  ;  for  no  jot  he  moved, 

Yet  mutter'd  wildly.     I  could  hear  he  loved 

Some  fair  immortal,  and  that  his  embrace 

Had  zoned  her  through  the  night.     There  is  no  trace 

Of  this  in  heaven  :  I  have  mark'd  each  cheek. 


BOOK  u.]  ENDYMION.  55 

And  find  it  is  the  vainest  thing  to  seek  ; 

And  that  of  all  things  't  is  kept  secretest. 

Endymion  !  one  day  thou  wilt  be  blest : 

So  still  obey  the  guiding  hand  that  fends 

Thee  safely  through  these  wonders  for  sweet  ends. 

'T  is  a  concealment  needful  in  extreme  ; 

And  if  I  guess'd  not  so,  the  sunny  beam 

Thou  shouldst  mount  up  to  with  me.     Now  adieu ! 

Here  must  we  leave  thee." — At  these  words  up  flew 

The  impatient  doves,  up  rose  the  floating  car, 

Up  went  the  hum  celestial.     Fligh  afar 

The  Latmian  saw  them  minish  into  naught ; 

And,  when  all  were  clear  vanish'd,  still  he  caught 

A  vivid  lightning  from  that  dreadful  bow. 

When  all  was  darken'd,  with  iEtnean  throe 

The  earth  closed — gave  a  solitary  moan — 

And  left  him  once  again  in  twilight  lone. 

He  did  not  rave,  he  did  not  stare  aghast, 
For  all  those  visions  were  o'ergone,  and  past, 
And  he  in  loneliness  :  he  felt  assured 
Of  happy  times,  when  all  he  had  endured 
Would  seem  a  feather  to  the  mighty  prize. 
So,  with  unusual  gladness,  on  he  hies 
Through  caves,  and  palaces  of  mottled  ore, 
Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquois  floor, 
Black  polish'd  porticoes  of  awful  shade, 
And,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  balustrade, 
Leading  afar  past  wild  magnificence. 
Spiral  through  ruggedest  loop-holes,  and  thence 
Stretching  across  a  void,  then  guiding  o'er 
Enormous  chasms,  where,  all  foam  and  roar. 
Streams  subterranean  tease  their  granite  beds ; 


so  ENDYMION.  [book:  ii. 


Then  heighten'd  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountains,  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear ;  but  at  the  splash, 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  inclose 
His  diamond  path  with  fretwork  streaming  round 
Alive,  and  dazzling  cool,  and  with  a  sound 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tumults,  when  sweet  shells 
Welcome  the  float  of  Thetis.     Long  he  dwells 
On  this  delight ;  for,  every  minute's  space. 
The  streams  with  changed  magic  interlace  ; 
Sometimes  like  delicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines  ;  then  weeping  trees, 
Moving  about  as  in  a  gentle  wind. 
Which,  in  a  wink,  to  watery  gauze  refined, 
Pour'd  into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies, 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries 
Of  flowers,  peacocks,  swans,  and  naiads  fair. 
Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare ; 
And  then  the  water,  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams. 
Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  fantastic  roof, 
Of  those  dusk  places  in  times  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  call'd.     He  bade  a  loath  farewell 
To  these  founts  Protean,  passing  gulf,  and  dell, 
And  torrent,  and  ten  thousand  jutting  shapes, 
Half  seen  through  deepest  gloom,  and  grisly  gapes, 
.Blackening  on  every  side,  and  overhead 
A  vaulted  dome  like  heaven's  far  bespread 
With  starlight  gems  :  ay,  all  so  huge  and  strange, 
The  solitary  felt  a  hurried  change 
Working  within  him  into  something  dreary, — 
Vex'd  like  a  morning  eagle,  lost  and  weary, 


BOOK  II.]  ENDYMION.  57 


And  purblind  amrd  foggy  midnight  wolds. 
But  he  revives  at  once :  for  who  beholds 
New  sudden  things,  nor  casts  his  mental  slough  ? 
Forth  from  a  rugged  arch,  in  the  dusk  below, 
^Game  mother  Cybele  !  alone — alone — 
In  sombre  chariot ;  dark  foldings  thrown 
About  her  majesty,  and  front  death-pale. 
With  turrets  crown'd.     Four  maned  lions  hale 
The  sluggish  wheels  ;   solemn  their  toothed  maws, 
Their  surly  eyes  brow-hidden,  heavy  paws 
Uplifted  drowsily,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  their  tawny  brushes.     Silent  sails 
This  shadowy  queen  athwart,  and  faints  away 
In  another  gloomy  arch. 

Wherefore  delay. 
Young  traveller,  in  such  a  mournful  place  ? 
Art  thou  wayworn,  or  canst  not  further  trace 
The  diamond  path  ?     And  does  it  indeed  end 
Abrupt  in  middle  air  ?     Yet  earthward  bend 
Thy  forehead,  and  to  Jupiter  cloud-borne 
Call  ardently  !     He  was  indeed  wayworn  ; 
Abrupt,  in  middle  air,  his  way  was  lost; 
To  cloud-borne  Jove  he  bowed,  and  there  crost 
Towards  him  a  large  eagle,  'twixt  whose  wings. 
Without  one  impious  word,  himself  lie  flings, 
Committed  to  the  ^darkness  and  the  gloom  : 
Down,  down,  uncertain  to  what  pleasant  doom. 
Swift  as  a  fathoming  plummet  down  he  fell 
Through  unknown  things  ;  till  exhaled  asphodel, 
And  rose,  with  spicy  fannings  interbreathed, 
Came  swelling  forth  where  little  caves  were  wreathed 
So  thick  with  leaves  and  mosses,  that  they  seem'd 

4* 


58  ENDYMION.  [book  ii. 

Large  honeycombs  of  green,  and  freshly  teem'd 
With  airs  delicious.     In  the  greenest  nook 
The  eagle  landed  him,  and  farewell  took. 

It  was  a  jasmine  bower,  all  bestrown  « 

With  golden  moss.     His  every  sense  had  grown 
Ethereal  for  pleasure ;  'bove  his  head 
Flew  a  delight  half-graspable ;   his  tread 
Was  Hesperean  ;  to  his  capable  ears 
Silence  was  music  from  the  holy  spheres ; 
A  dewy  luxury  was  in  his  eyes ; 
The  little  flowers  felt  his  pleasant  sighs 
And  stirr'd  them  faintly.     Verdant  cave  and  cell 
He  wander'd  through,  oft  wondering  at  such  swell 
Of  sudden  exaltation  :  but,  "  Alas  !" 
Said  he,  "  will  all  this  gush  of  feeling  pass 
Away  in  solitude  ?     And  must  they  wane, 
Like  melodies  upon  a  sandy  plain. 
Without  an  echo  ?     Then  shall  I  be  left 
So  sad,  so  melancholy,  so  bereft ! 
Yet  still  1  feel  immortal  !     O  my  love, 
My  breath  of  life,  where  art  thou  ?     High  above, 
Dancing  before  the  morning  gates  of  heaven  ? 
Or  keeping  watch  among  those  starry  seven. 
Old  Atlas'  children  ?     Art  a  maid  of  the  waters. 
One  of  shell-winding  Triton's  bright-hair'd  daughters  ? 
Or  art,  impossible  !  a  nymph  of  Dian's, 
Weaving  a  coronal  of  tender  scions 
For  very  idleness  ?     Where'er  thou  art, 
Methinks  it  now  is  at  my  will  to  start 
Into  thine  arms  ;  to  scare  Aurora's  train, 
And  snatch  thee  from  the  morning  ;  o'er  the  main 
To  scud  like  a  wild  bird,  and  take  thee  off 


BOOK  II.]  ENDYMION.  Sd 

From  thy  sea-foamy  cradle  ;  or  to  doff 

Thy  shepherd  vest,  and  woo  thee  'mid  fresh  leaves. 

No,  no,  too  eagerly  my  soul  deceives 

Its  powerless  self:  I  know  this  cannot  be. 

O  let  me  then  by  some  sweet  dreaming  flee 

To  her  entrancements  :  hither  sleep  awhile  ! 

Hither,  most  gentle  sleep  !  and  soothing  foil  • 

For  some  few  hours  the  coming  solitude." 

Thus  spake  he,  and  that  moment  felt  endued 
With  power  to  dream  deliciously  ;  so  wound 
Through  a  dim  passage,  searching  till  he  found 
The  smoothest  mossy  bed  and  deepest,  where 
He  threw  himself  and  just  into  the  air 
Stretching  his  indolent  arms,  he  took,  O  bliss ! 
A  naked  waist :  "  Fair  Cupid,  whence  is  this  ?" 
A  Veil-known  voice  sigh'd,  "  Sweetest,  here  am  I  I  " 
At  which  soft  ravishment,  with  doting  cry 
They  trembled  to  each  other. — Helicon  ! 
O  fountain'd  hill  !     Old  Homer's  Helicon  ! 
That  thou  wouldst  spout  a  little  streamlet  o'er 
These  sorry  pages  ;  then  the  verse  would  soar 
And  sing  above  this  gentle  pair,  like  lark 
Over  his  nested  young  :  but  all  is  dark 
Around  thine  aged  top,  and  thy  clear  fount 
Exhales  in  mists  to  heaven.     Ay,  the  count 
Of  mighty  Poets  is  made  up  ;  the  scroll 
Is  folded  by  the  Muses  ;  the  bright  roll 
Is  in  Apollo's  hand  :  our  dazed  eyes 
Have  seen  a  new  tinge  in  the  western  skies : 
The  world  has  done  its  duty.     Yet,  oh  yet, 
Although  the  sun  of  poesy  is  set. 
These  lovers  did  embrace,  and  we  must  weep 


60  ENDYMION.  [book  ii. 


That  there  is  no  old  power  left  to  steep 

A  quill  immortal  in  their  joyous  tears. 

Long  time  in  silence  did  their  anxious  fears 

Question  that  thus  it  was  ;  long  time  they  lay 

Fondling  and  kissing  every  doubt  away  ; 

Long  time  ere  soft  caressing  sobs  began 

To  mellow  into  words,  and  then  there  ran 

Two  bubbling  springs  of  talk  from  their  sweet  lips. 

"  O  known  Unknown  !  from  whom  my  being  sips 

Such  darling  essence,  wherefore  may  I  not 

Be  ever  in  these  arms  ?  in  this  sweet  spot 

Pillow  my  chin  for  ever  ?  ever  press 

These  toying  hands  and  kiss  their  smooth  excess  ? 

Why  not  for  ever  and  for  ever  feel 

That  breath  about  my  eyes  ?     Ah,  thou  wilt  steal 

Away  from  me  again,  indeed,  indeed — 

Thou  wilt  be  gone  away,  and  wilt  not  heed 

My  lonely  madness.     Speak,  my  kindest  fair  I 

Is — is  it  to  be  so  ?     No  !     Who  will  dare 

To  pluck  thee  from  me  ?     And,  of  thine  own  will, 

Full  well  I  feel  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me.     Still 

Let  me  entwine  thee  surer,  surer — now 

How  can  we  part  ?     Elysium  !  who  art  thou  ? 

Who,  that  tftou  canst  not  be  for  ever  here, 

Or  lift  me  with  thee  to  some  starry  sphere  ? 

Enchantress  !  tell  me  by  this  soft  embrace 

By  the  most  soft  complexion  of  thy  face, 

Those  lips,  O  slippery  blisses !  twinkling  eyes, 

And  by  these  tcnderest,  milky  sovereignties — 

Th^se  tenderest,  and  by  the  nectar- wine, 

The  passion  " "  O  loved  Ida  the  divine  ! 

Endymion  !  dearest !     Ah,  unhappy  me  ! 
His  soul  will  'scape  us — O  felicity  ! 


BOOK  n  ]  ENDYMION.  fU 


How  he  does  love  me  !     His  poor  temples  beat 

To  the  very  tune  of  love — how  sweet,  sweet,  sweet ! 

Revive,  dear  youth,  or  I  shall  faint  and  die  ; 

Revive,  or  these  soft  hours  will  hurry  by 

In  tranced  dulness ;  speak,  and  let  that  spell 

Affright  this  lethargy  !  I  cannot  quell 

Its  heavy  pressure,  and  will  press  at  least 

My  lips  to  thine,  that  they  may  richly  feast 

Until  we  taste  the  life  of  love  again. 

What !  dost  thou  move  ?  dost  kiss  ?  O  bliss !  O  pain  ! 

I  love  thee,  youth,  more  than  I  can  conceive ; 

And  so  long  absence  from  thee  doth  bereave 

My  soul  of  any  rest ;  yet  must  I  hence  : 

Yet,  can  I  not  to  starry  eminence 

Uplift  thee  ;  nor  for  very  shame  can  own 

Myself  to  thee.     Ah,  dearest !  do  not  groan, 

Or  thou  wilt  force  me  from  this  secresy. 

And  I  must  blush  in  heaven.     O  that  I 

Had  done  it  already  !  that  the  dreadful  smiles 

At  my  lost  brightness,  my  impassion'd  wiles. 

Had  waned  from  Olympus'  solemn  height. 

And  from  all  serious  Gods  ;  that  our  delight 

Was  quite  forgotten;  save  of  us  alone  ? 

And  wherefore  so  ashamed  ?     'T  is  but  to  atone 

For  endless  pleasure,  by  some  coward  blushes  : 

Yet  must  I  be  a  coward  !     Horror  rushes 

Too  palpable  before  me — the  sad  look 

Of  Jove — Minerva's  start — no  bosom  shook 

With  awe  of  purity — no  Cupid  pinion 

In  reverence  veil'd — my  crystalling  dominion 

Half  lost,  and  all  old  hymns  made  nullity  ! 

But  what  is  this  to  love  ?     Oh !  I  could  fly 

With  thee  into  the  ken  of  heavenly  powers, 


62  ENDYMION.  [book  ii. 

So  thou  wouldst  thus,  for  many  sequent  hours, 

Press  me  so  sweetly.     Now  I  swear  at  once 

That  I  am  wise,  that  Pallas  is  a  dunce — 

Perhaps  her  love  like  mine  is  but  unknown — 

Oh  !  I  do  think  that  I  have  been  alone 

In  chastity  !  yes,  Pallas  has  been  sighing, 

While  every  eve  saw  me  my  hair  uptying 

With  fingers  cool  as  aspen  leaves.     Sweet  love  ! 

I  was  as  vague  as  solitary  dove, 

Nor  knew  that  nests  were  built.     Now  a  soft  kiss — 

Ay,  by  that  kiss,  I  vow  an  endless  bliss. 

An  immortality  of  passion's  thine : 

Ere  long  I  will  exalt  thee  to  the  shine 

Of  heaven  ambrosial ;  and  we  will  shade 

Ourselves  whole  summers  by  a  river  glade  ; 

And  I  will  tell  thee  stories  of  the  sky. 

And  breathe  thee  whispers  of  its  minstrelsy. 

My  happy  love  will  overwing  all  bounds  ! 

O  let  me  melt  into  thee  !  let  the  sounds 

Of  our  close  voices  marry  at  their  birth  ; 

Let  us  entwine  hoveringly  !  O  dearth 

Of  human  words  !  roughness  of  mortal  speech ! 

Lispings  empyrean  will  I  sometime  teach 

Thine  honey'd  tongue — lute-breathings  which  I  gasp 

To  have  thee  understand,  now  while  I  clasp 

Thee  thus,  and  weep  for  fondness — I  am  pain'd, 

Endymion  :  wo  !  wo  !  is  grief  contain'd 

In  the  very  deeps  of  pleasure,  my  sole  life  ?'' — 

Hereat,  with  many  sobs,  her  gentle  strife 

Melted  into  a  languor.     He  return'd 

Entranced  vows  and  tears. 


BOOK  11. ]  ENDYMION.  03 

Ye  who  have  yearn'd 
With  too  much  passion,  will  here  stay  and  pity, 
•  For  the  mere  sake  of  truth  ;  as  't  is  a  ditty 
Not  of  these  days,  but  long  ago  't  was  told 
By  a  cavern  wind  unto  a  forest  old ; 
And  then  the  forest  told  it  in  a  dream 
To  a  sleeping  lake,  whose  cool  and  level  gleam 
A  poet  caught  as  he  was  journeying 
To  Phoebus'  shrine  j  and  in  it  he  did  fling 
His  weary  limbs,  bathing  an  hour's  space, 
And  after,  straight  in  that  inspired  place 
He  sang  the  story  up  into  the  air, 
Giving  it  universal  freedom.     There 
Has  it  been  ever  sounding  for  those  ears 
Whose  tips  are  glowing  hot.     The  legend  cheers 
Yon  sentinel  stars  ;  and  he  who  listens  to  it 
Must  surely  be  self-doom'd  or  he  will  rue  it : 
For  quenchless  burnings  come  upon  the  heart. 
Made  fiercer  by  a  fear  lest  any  part 
Should  be  engulfed  in  the  eddying  wind. 
As  much  as  here  is  penn'd  doth  always  find 
A  resting-place,  thus  much  comes  clear  and  plain  ; 
Anon  the  strange  voice  is  upon  the  wane — 
And  'tis  but  echoed  from  departing  sound, 
That  the  fair  visitant  at  last  unwound 
Her  gentle  limbs,  and  left  the  youth  asleep. — 
Thus  the  tradition  of  the  gusty  deep. 

Now  turn  we  to  our  former  chroniclers. 
Endymion  awoke,  that  grief  of  hers 
Sweet  paining  on  his  ear  ;  he  sickly  guess'd 
How  lone  he  was  once  more,  and  sadly  press'd 
His  empty  arms  together,  hung  his  head, 


64  ENDYMION.  [book  ii. 

And  most  forlorn  upon  that  widow'd  bed 
Sat  silently.     Love's  madness  he  had  known  : 
Often  with  more  than  tortured  lion's  groan 
Moanings  had  burst  from  him  ;  but  now  that  rage 
Had  pass'd  away  :  no  longer  did  he  wage 
A  rough-voiced  war  against  the  dooming  stars. 
No,  he  had  felt  too  much  for  such  harsh  jars : 
The  lyre  of  his  soul  jEolian  tuned 
Forgot  all  violence,  and  but  communed 
With  melancholy  thought :  O  he  had  swoon 'd 
Drunken  from  pleasure's  nipple !  and  his  love 
Henceforth  was  dove-like. — Loath  was  he  to  move 
From  the  imprinted  couch,  and  when  he  did, 
'T  was  with  slow,  languid  paces,  and  face  hid 
In  muffling  hands.     So  temper'd,  out  he  stray'd 
Half  seeing  visions  that  might  have  dismay'd 
Alecto's  serpents  ;   ravishments  more  keen 
Than  Hermes'  pipe,  when  anxious  he  did  lean 
Over  eclipsing  eyes  :  and  at  the  last 
It  was  a  sounding  grotto,  vaulted,  vast, 
O'erstudded  with  a  thousand,  thousand  pearls, 
And  crimson-mouthed  shells  with  stubborn  curls, 
Of  every  shape  and  size,  even  to  the  bulk 
In  which  whales  arbor  close,  to  brood  and  sulk 
Against  an  endless  storm.     Moreover  too. 
Fish-semblances,  of  green  and  azure  hue. 
Ready  to  snort  their  streams.     In  this  cool  Monrler 
Endymion  sat  down,  and  'gan  to  ponder 
On  all  his  life  :  his  youth,  up  to  the  day 
When  'mid  acclaim,  and  feasts,  and  garlands  gay, 
He  stepp'd  upon  his  shepherd  throne :  tiie  look 
Of  his  white  palace  in  wild  forest  nook. 
And  all  the  revels  he  had  lorded  there  : 


BOOK  II.]  ENDYMION.  ft5 


Each  tender  maiden  whom  he  once  thought  fair, 
With  every  friend  and  fellow-woodlander — 
Pass'd  like  a  dream  before  him.     Then  the  spur 
Of  the  old  bards  to  mighty  deeds  :  his  plans 
To  nurse  the  golden  age  'mong  shepherd  clans : 
That  wondrous  night :  the  great  Pan-festival : 
His  sister's  sorrow  :  and  his  wanderings  all, 
Until  into  the  earth's  deep  maw  he  rush'd  : 
Then  all  its  buried  magic,  till  it  flush'd 
High  with  excessive  love.     '•  And  now,"  thought  he, 
'  How  long  must  I  remain  in  jeopardy 
Of  blank  amazements  that  amaze  no  more  ? 
Now  I  have  tasted  her  sweet  soul  to  the  core, 
All  other  depths  are  shallow  :  essences, 
Once  spiritual,  are  like  muddy  lees. 
Meant  but  to  fertilise  my  earthly  root, 
And  make  my  branches  lift  a  golden  fruit 
Into  the  bloom  of  heaven  :  other  light. 
Though  it  be  quick  and  sharp  enough  to  blight 
The  Olympian  eagle's  vision,  is  dark, 
Dark  as  the  parentage  of  chaos.     Hark  ! 
My  silent  thoughts  are  echoing  from  these  shells  ; 
Or  they  are  but  the  ghosts,  the  dying  swells 
Of  noises  far  away  ? — list !" — Hereupon 
He  kept  an  anxious  ear.     The  humming  tone 
Came  louder,  and  behold,  there  as  he  lay. 
On  either  side  outgush'd,  with  misty  spray, 
A  copious  spring ;  and  both  together  dash'd 
Swift,  mad,  fantastic  round  the  rocks,  and  lash'd 
Among  the  conchs  and  shells  of  the  lofty  grot, 
Leaving  a  trickling  dew.     At  last  they  shot 
Down  from  the  ceiling's  height,  pouring  p.  noise 
As  of  some  breathless  racers  whose  hopes,  poise 


6S  ENDYMION.  [book  ii. 

Upon  the  last  few  steps,  and  with  spent  force 
Along  the  ground  they  took  a  winding  course. 
Endymion  follow 'd — for  it  seem'd  that  one 
Ever  pursued,  the  other  strove  to  shun — 
FoUow'd  their  languid  mazes,  till  well  nigh 
He  had  left  thinking  of  the  mystery, — 
And  was  now  rapt  in  tender  hoverings 
Over  the  vanish'd  bliss.     Ah  !  what  is  it  sings 
His  dream  away  ?     What  melodies  are  these  ? 
They  sound  as  through  the  whispering  of  trees, 
Not  native  in  such  barren  vaults.     Give  ear  ! 

"  O  Arethusa,  peerless  nymph  !  why  fear 
Such  tenderness  as  mine  ?     Great  Dian,  why, 
Why  didst  thou  hear  her  prayer  ?     O  that  I 
Were  rippling  round  her  dainty  fairness  now, 
Circling  about  her  waist,  and  striving  how 
To  entice  her  to  a  dive  !  then  stealing  in 
Between  her  luscious  lips  and  eyelids  thin. 
O  that  her  shining  hair  was  in  the  sun, 
And  I  distilling  from  it  thence  to  run. 
In  amorous  rillets  down  her  shrinking  form  ! 
To  linger  on  her  lily  shoulders,  warm 
Between  her  kissing  breasts,  and  every  charm 
Touch  raptured  ! — See  how  painfully  I  flow  : 
Fair  maid,  be  pitiful  to  my  great  wo. 
Stay,  stay,  thy  weary  course,  and  let  me  lead 
A  happy  wooer,  to  the  flowery  mead 
Where  all  that  beauty  snared  me." — "  Cruel  god, 
Desist !  or  my  offended  mistress'  nod 
Will  stagnate  all  thy  fountains: — tease  me  not 
With  syren  words — Ah,  have  I  really  got, 
Such  power  to  madden  thee  ?     And  is  it  true — 


BOOK  II.]  ENDYMION.  67 

Away,  away,  or  I  shall  dearly  rue 

My  very  thoughts  :  in  mercy  then  away, 

Kindest  Alphous,  for  should  I  obey 

My  own  dear  will,  't  would  be  a  deadly  bane." — 

"  Q,  Oread-Queen  !  would  that  thou  hadst  a  pain 

Like  this  of  mine,  then  would  I  fearless  turn 

And  be  a  criminal." — "  Alas  !  I  burn, 

I  shudder — gentle  river,  get  thee  hence. 

Alpheus  !  thou  enchanter  !  every  sense 

Of  mine  was  once  made  perfect  in  these  woods. 

Fresh  breezes,  bowery  lawns,  and  innocent  floods, 

Ripe  fruits,  and  lonely  couch,  contentment  gave  ; 

But  ever  since  I  heedlessly  did  lave 

In  thy  deceitful  stream,  a  panting  glow 

Grew  strong  within  me  :  wherefore  serve  me  so. 

And  call  it  love  ?     Alas  !  't  was  cruelty. 

Not  once  more  did  I  close  my  happy  eyes 

Amid  the  thrush's  song.     Away  !  Avaunt ! 

0  't  was  a  cruel  thing." — "  Now  thou  dost  taunt 
So  softly,  Arethusa,  that  I  think 

If  thou  wast  playing  on  my  shady  brink. 

Thou  wouldst  bathe  once  again.     Innocent  maid  ! 

Stifle  thine  heart  no  more ; — nor  be  afraid 

Of  angry  powers  :  there  are  deities 

Will  shade  us  with  their  wings.     Those  fitful  sighs 

'Tis  almost  death  to  hear;  O  let  me  pour 

A  dewy  balm  upon  them  ! — fear  no  more. 

Sweet  Arethusa  !     Dian's  self  must  feel, 

Sometimes,  these  very  pangs.     Dear  maiden,  steal 

Blushing  into  my  soul,  and  let  us  fly 

These  dreary  caverns  for  the  open  sky. 

1  will  delight  thee  all  my  winding  course. 
From  the  green  sea  up  to  my  hidden  source 


68  ENDYMION.  [book  ii. 

About  Arcadian  forests ;  and  will  show 

The  channels  where  my  coolest  waters  flow, 

Through  mossy  rocks ;  where  'mid  exuberant  green, 

I  roatn  in  pleasant  darkness,  more  unseen 

Than  Saturn  in  his  exile ;  where  I  brim 

Round  flowery  islands,  and  take  thence  a  skim 

or  mealy  sweets,  which  myriads  of  bees 

Buzz  from  their  honey 'd  wings:  and  thou  shouldst  please 

Thyself  to  choose  the  richest,  where  we  might 

Be  incense-pillow'd  every  summer  night. 

Doff"  all  sad  fears,  thou  white  deliciousness. 

And  let  us  be  thus  comforted  :  unless 

Thou  couldst  rejoice  to  see  my  hopeless  stream 

Hurry  distracted  from  Sol's  temperate  beam. 

And  pour  to  death  along  some  hungry  sands." 

"  What  can  I  do,  Alpheus  ?     Dian  stands 

Severe  before  me  :  persecuting  fate  ! 

Unhappy  Arethusa  !  thou  wast  late 

A  huntress  free  in — "  At  this,  sudden  fell 

Those  tvvoead  streams  adown  a  fearful  dell. 

The  Latmian  listen'd,  but  he  heard  no  more 

Save  echo,  faint  repeating  o'er  and  o'er 

The  name  of  Arethusa.     On  the  verge 

Of  that  dark  gulf  he  wept,  and  said  :  "  I  urge 

Thee,  gentle  Goddess  of  my  pilgrimage, 

By  our  eternal  hopes,  to  soothe,  to  assuage, 

If  thou  art  powerful,  these  lovers'  pains  ; 

And  make  them  happy  in  some  happy  plains." 

He  turn'd — there  was  a  whelming  sound — he  slept, 
There  was  a  cooler  light;  and  so  he  kept 
Towards  it  by  a  sandy  path,  and  lo  ! 
JVlore  suddenly  than  doth  a  moment  go, 
The  visions  of  the  earth  were  gone  and  fled — 
He  saw  the  giant  sea  above  his  head  ! 


BOOK  III.]  ENDYMION.  69 


BOOK    III. 


There  are  who  lord  il  o'er  their  fellow-men 
With  most  prevailing  tinsel :  who  unpen 
Their  baaing  vanities,  to  l)rowse  away 
The  comfortable  green  and  juicy  hay 
From  human  pastures  ;  or,  O  torturing  fact ! 
Who,  through  an  idiot  blink,  will  see  unpack'd 
Fire-branded  foxes,  to  sear  up  and  singe 
Our  gold  and  ripe-ear'd  hopes.     W^ith  not  one  tinge 
Of  sanctuary  splendor,  not  a  sight 
Able  to  face  an  owl's,  they  still  are  dight 
By  the  blear-eyed  nations  in  empurpled  vests, 
And  crowns,  and  turbans.     With  ulnladen  breasts, 
Save  of  blown  self-applause,  they  proudly  mount 
To  their  spirit's  perch,  their  being's  high  account, 
Their  tiptop  nothings,  their  dull  skies,  their  thrones— 
Amid  the  fierce  intoxicating  tones 
Of  trumpets,  shoutings,  and  belabor'd  drums, 
And  sudden  cannon.     Ah  !  how  all  this  hums, 
In  wakeful  ears,  like  uproar  past  and  gone — 
Like  thunder-clouds  that  spake  to  Babylon, 
And  set  those  old  Chaldeans  to  their  tasks. — 
Are  then  regalities  all  gilded  masks  ? 
No,  there  are  throned  seats  unscalable 
But  by  a  patient  wing,  a  constant  spell, 


70  ENDYMION.  [book  hi. 

Or  by  ethereal  things  that,  unconfined, 

Can  make  a  ladder  of  the  eternal  wind, 

And  poise  about  in  cloudy  thunder-tents, 

To  watch  the  abysm-birth  of  elements. 

Ay,  'bove  the  withering  of  old-lipp'd  Fate 

A  thousand  Powers  keep  religious  state. 

In  water,  fiery  realm,  and  airy  bourne ; 

And,  silent  as  a  consecrated  urn, 

Hold  sphery  sessions  for  a  season  due. 

Yet  few  of  these  far  majesties,  ah,  few  ! 

Have  bared  their  operations  to  this  globe — 

Few,  who  with  gorgeous  pageantry  enrobe 

Our  piece  of  heaven — whose  benevolence 

Shakes  hand  w  ith  our  own  Ceres  ;  every  sense 

Filling  with  spiritual  sweets  to  plenitude, 

As  bees  gorge  full  their  cells.     And  by  the  feud 

'Twixt  Nothing  and  Creation,  I  here  swear, 

Eterne  Apollo  !  that  tliy  Sister  fair 

Is  of  all  these  the  gentlicr-mightiest; 

When  thy  gold  breath  is  misting  in  the  west, 

She  unobserved  steals  unto  her  throne, 

And  there  she  sits  most  meek  and  most  alone  ; 

As  if  she  had  not  pomp  subservient ; 

As  if  thine  eye,  high  Poet !  was  not  bent 

Towards  her  with  the  Muses  in  thine  heart ; 

As  if  the  minist'ring  stars  kept  not  apart. 

Waiting  for  silver-footed  messages. 

O  Moon  !  the  oldest  shades  'mong  oldest  trees 

Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in  : 

O  Moon  !  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 

The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 

Thou  dost  bless  everywhere,  with  silver  lip 

Kissing  dead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping  kine, 


BOOK  III.]  ENDYMION.  71 


Couch'd  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields  divine  : 
Innumerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise, 
Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes ; 
And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not 
One  obscure  hiding-place,  one  little  spot 
Where  pleasure  may  be  sent :  the  nested  wren 
Has  thy  fair  face  within  its  tranquil  ken, 
And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy  leaf 
Takes  glimpses  of  thee  ;  thou  art  a  relief 
To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 
Within  its  pearly  house  ; — The  mighty  deeps, 
The  monstrous  sea  is  thine — the  myriad  sea  ! 
O  Moon  !  far  spooming  Ocean  bows  to  thee, 
And  Tellus  feels  her  forehead's  cumbrous  load. 

Cynthia  !  where  art  thou  now  ?  What  far  abode 
Of  green  or  silvery  bower  doth  enshrine 
Such  utmost  beauty  ?  Alas,  thou  dost  pine 
For  one  as  sorrowful :  thy  cheek  is  pale 
For  one  whose  cheek  is  pale :  thou  dost  bewail 
His  tears  who  weeps  for  thee.     Where  dost  thou  sigh  ? 
Ah  !  surely  that  light  peeps  from  Vesper's  eye. 
Or,  what  a  thing  is  love  !     'T  is  She,  but  lo ! 
How  changed,  how  full  of  ache,  how  gone  in  wo  ! 
She  dies  at  the  thinnest  cloud  ;  her  loveliness 
Is  wan  on  Neptune's  blue  :  yet  there's  a  stress 
Of  love-spangles,  just  off  yon  cape  of  trees. 
Dancing  upon  the  waves,  as  if  to  please 
The  curly  foam  with  amorous  influence. 
O,  not  so  idle  !  for  down  glancing  thence, 
She  fathoms  eddies,  and  runs  wild  about 
O'erwhelming  water-courses ;  scaring  out 
The  thorny  sharks  from  hiding-holes,  and  fright'ning 


ENDYMION.  [book  hi. 


Their  savage  eyes  with  unaccustom'd  lightning. 

Where  will  the  splendor  be  content  to  reach  ? 

O  love  !  how  potent  hast  thou  been  to  teach 

Strange  journeyings  !  Wherever  beauty  dwells, 

In  gulf  or  aerie,  mountains  or  deep  dells, 

In  light,  in  gloom,  in  star  or  blazing  sun. 

Thou  pointest  out  the  way,  and  straight 't  is  won. 

Amid  his  toil  thou  gavest  Leander  breath  ; 

Thou  leddest  Orpheus  through  the  gleams  of  death  ; 

Thou  madest  Pluto  bear  thin  element : 

And  now,  O  winged  Chieftain  !  thou  hast  sent 

A  moon-beam  to  the  deep,  deep  water-world. 

To  find  Endymion. 

On  gold  sand  impearl'd 
With  lily  shells,  and  pebbles  milky  white, 
Poor  Cynthia  greeted  him,  and  soothed  her  light 
Against  his  pallid  face :  he  felt  the  charm 
To  breathlessness,  and  suddenly  a  warm 
Of  his  heart's  blood  :  't  was  very  sweet ;  he  stay'd 
His  wandering  steps,  and  half-entranced  laid 
His  head  upon  a  tuft  of  straggling  weeds. 
To  taste  the  gentle  moon,  and  freshening  beads, 
Lash'd  from  the  crystal  roof  by  fishes'  tails. 
And  so  he  kept,  until  the  rosy  veils 
Mantling  the  east,  by  Aurora's  peering  hand 
Were  lifted  from  the  water's  breast,  and  fann'd 
Into  sweet  air  ;  and  sober'd  morning  came 
Meekly  through  billows : — when  like  taper-flame 
Left  sudden  by  a  dallying  breath  of  air, 
He  rose  in  silence,  and  once  more  'gan  fare 
Along  his  fated  way. 


BOOK  111.]  ENDYMION.  73 

Far  had  he  roam'd, 
\\' ith  nothing  save  the  hollow  vast,  that  foam'd 
Above,  around,  and  at  his  feet ;  save  things 
More  dead  than  Morpheus'  imaginings  : 
Old  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  breastplates  large 
Of  gone  sea- warriors  ;  brazen  beaks  and  targe  ; 
Rudders  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  lost 
The  sway  of  human  hand ;  gold  vase  emboss'd 
With  long- forgotten  story,  and  wherein 
No  reveller  had  ever  dipp'd  a  chin 
But  those  of  Saturn's  vintage  ;  mouldering  scrolls, 
Writ  in  the  tongue  of  heaven,  by  those  souls 
Who  first  were  on  the  earth ;  and  sculptures  rude 
In  ponderous  stone,  developing  the  mood 
Of  ancient  Nox ; — then  skeletons  of  man, 
Of  beast,  behemoth,  and  leviathan, 
And  elephant,  and  eagle,  and  huge  jaw 
Of  nameless  monster.     A  cold  leaden  awe 
These  secrets  struck  into  him ;  and  unless 
Dian  had  chased  away  that  heavmess. 
He  might  have  died  :  but  now,  with  cheered  feel. 
He  onward  kept ;  wooing  these  thoughts  to  steal       ♦ 
About  the  labyrinth  in  his  soul  of  love. 

"  What  is  there  in  thee,  Moon  !  that  thou  shouldst  move 
My  heart  so  potently  ?     When  yet  a  child 
I  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smiled. 
Thou  seem'dst  my  sister  :  hand  in  hand  we  went 
From  eve  to  morn  across  the  firmament. 
No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree, 
Till  thou  hadst  cool'd  their  cheeks  deliciously : 
No  tumbling  water  ever  spake  romance. 
But  when  my  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could  dance  : 


ENDYMION.  [book  hi. 


No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bower  divine, 

Until  thou  lifted'st  up  thine  eyelids  fine : 

In  sowing-time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take, 

Or  drop  a  seed,  till  thou  wast  wide  awake  ; 

And,  in  the  summer-tide  of  blossoming, 

No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithely  sing 

And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  all  the  night. 

No  melody  was  like  a  passing  spright 

If  it  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 

Yes,  in  my  boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain 

By  thee  were  fashion'd  to  the  self-same  end  ; 

And  as  I  grew  in  years,  still  didst  thou  blend 

With  all  my  ardors  :  thou  wast  the  deep  glen  ; 

Thou  wast  the  mountain-top — the  sage's  pen — 

The  poet's  harp — the  voice  of  friends — the  sun  ; 

Thou  wast  the  river — thou  wast  glory  won  ; 

Thou  wast  my  clarion's  blast — thou  wast  my  steed — 

My  goblet  full  of  wine — my  topmost  deed  : — 

Thou  wast  the  charm  of  women,  lovely  Moon  ! 

O  what  a  wild  and  harmonised  tune 

My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful ! 

On  some  bright  essence  could  I  lean,  and  lull 

Myself  to  immortality:  I  prest 

Nature's  soft  pillow  in  a  wakeful  rest. 

But  gentle  Orb !  there  came  a  nearer  bliss — 

My  strange  love  came — Felicity's  abyss  ! 

She  came,  and  thou  didst  fade,  and  fade  away — 

Yet  not  entirely  ;  no,  thy  starry  sway 

Has  been  an  under-passion  to  this  hour. 

Now  I  begin  to  feel  thine  orby  power 

Is  coming  fresh  upon  me;  O  be  kind  ! 

Keep  back  thine  influence,  and  do  not  blind 

My  sovereign  vision. — Dearest  love,  forgive 


BOOK  HI.]  ENDYMICTN.  75 


That  I  can  think  away  from  thee  and  live ! — 

Pardon  me,  airy  planet,  that  I  prize 

One  thought  beyond  thine  argent  luxuries! 

How  far  beyond  !"     At  this  a  surprised  start 

Frosted  the  springing  verdure  of  his  heart; 

For  as  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  swear 

How  his  own  goddess  was  past  all  things  fair, 

He  saw  far  in  the  concave  green  of  the  sea 

An  old  man  sitting  calm  and  peacefully. 

Upon  a  weeded  rock  this  old  man  sat, 

And  his  white  hair  was  awful,  and  a  mat 

Of  weeds  were  cold  beneath  his  cold  thin  feet ; 

And,  ample  as  the  largest  winding-sheet, 

A  cloak  of  blue  wrapp'd  up  his  aged  bones, 

O'erwrought  with  symbols  by  the  deepest  groans 

Of  ambitious  magic  :  every  ocean-form 

Was  woven  in  with  black  distinctness  ;  storm, 

And  calm,  and  whispering,  and  hideous  roar 

Were  emblem'd  in  the  woof;  with  every  shape 

That  skims,  or  dives,  or  sleeps,  'twixt  cape  and  cape. 

The  gulfing  whale  was  like  a  dot  in  the  spell. 

Yet  look  upon  it,  and  'twould  size  and  swell 

To  its  huge  self;  and  the  minutest  fish 

Would  pass  the  very  hardest  gazer's  wish, 

And  show  his  little  eye's  anatomy. 

Then  there  was  pictured  the  regality 

Of  Neptune  ;  and  the  sea-nymphs  round  his  state, 

In  beauteous  vassalage,  look  up  and  wait. 

Beside  this  old  man  lay  a  pearly  wand, 

And  in  his  lap  a  book,  the  which  he  conn'd 

So  steadfastly,  that  the  new  denizen 

Had  time  to  keep  him  in  amazed  ken, 

To  mark  these  shadowiogs,  and  stand  in  awe. 


76       ■  ENDYMION.  [book  lu. 

The  old  man  raised  his  hoary  head  and  saw 
The  wilder'd  stranger — seeming  not  to  see, 
His  features  were  so  lifeless.     Suddenly 
He  woke  as  from  a  trance  ;  his  snow-white  brows 
Went  arching  up,  and  like  two  magic  ploughs 
Furrow'd  deep  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  large, 
Which  kept  as  fixedly  as  rocky  marge, 
Till  round  his  wither'd  lips  had  gone  a  smile. 
TJien  up  he  rose,  like  one  whose  tedious  toil 
Had  watch'd  for  years  in  forlorn  hermitage. 
Who  had  not  from  mid-life  to  utmost  age 
■Eased  in  one  accent  his  o'erburden'd  soul, 
Even  to  the  trees.     He  rose  :  he  grasp'd  his  stole. 
With  convulsed  clenches  waving  it  abroad. 
And  in  a  voice  of  solemn  joy,  that  awed 
Echo  into  oblivion,  he  said  : — 

"  Thou  art  the  man !     Now  shall  I  lay  my  head 
In  peace  upon  my  watery  pillow :  now 
Sleep  will  come  smoothly  to  my  weary  brow. 
O  Jove  !  I  shall  be  young  again,  be  young  ! 
O  shell-borne  Neptune,  I  am  pierced  and  stung 
With  new-born  life  !     What  shall  I  do  ?     Where  go, 
When  I  have  cast  this  serpent-skin  of  wo  ? — 
I'll  swim  to  the  syrens,  and  one  moment  listen 
Their  melodies,  and  see  their  long  hair  glisten  ; 
Anon  upon  that  giant's  arm  I'll  be. 
That  writhes  about  the  roots  of  Sicily  : 
To  northern  seas  I'll  in  a  twinkling  sail, 
And  mount  upon  the  snortings  of  a  whale 
To  some  black  cloud  ;  thence  down  I'll  madly  sweep 
On  forked  lightning,  to  the  deepest  deep. 
Where  through  some  sucking  pool  I  will  be  hurl'd 


BOOK  III.]  ENDYMION.  77 

With  rapture  to  the  other  side  of  the  world  ! 

O,  I  am  full  of  gladness !     Sisters  three, 

I  bow  full-hearted  to  your  old  decree  ! 

Yes,  every  god  be  thank'd,  and  power  benign, 

For  I  no  more  shall  wither,  droop,  and  pine. 

Thou  art  the  man  ! "     Endymion  started  back 

Dismay'd ;  and  like  a  wretch  from  whom  tlie  rack 

Tortures  hot  breath,  and  speech  of  agony, 

Mutter'd  :  "  What  lonely  death  am  I  to  die 

In  this  cold  region  ?     Will  he  let  me  freeze, 

And  float  my  brittle  limbs  o'er  polar  seas  ? 

Or  will  he  touch  me  with  his  searing  hand. 

And  leave  a  black  memorial  on  the  sand  ? 

Or  tear  me  piecemeal  with  a  bony  saw, 

And  keep  me  as  a  chosen  food  to  draw 

His  magian  fish  through  hated  fire  and  flame  ? 

O  misery  of  hell !  resistless,  tame. 

Am  I  to  be  burn'd  up  ?     No,  I  M'ill  shout. 

Until  the  gods  through  heaven's  blue  look  out ! — 

0  Tartarus  !  but  some  few  days  agone 
Her  soft  arms  were  entwining  me,  and  on 

Her  voice  I  hung  like  fruit  among  green  leaves  : 
Her  lips  were  all  my  own,  and — ah,  ripe  sheaves 
Of  happiness  !  ye  on  the  stubble  droop, 
But  never  may  be  garner 'd.     I  must  stoop 
My  head,  and  kiss  death's  foot.     Love  !  love,  farewell ! 
Is  there  no  hope  from  thee  ?     This  horrid  spell 
Would  melt  at  thy  sweet  breath. — By  Dian's  hind 
Feeding  from  her  white  fingers,  on  the  wind 

1  see  thy  streaming  hair !  and  now,  by  Pan, 
I  care  not  for  this  old  mysterious  man  !  " 

He  spake,  and  walking  to,  that  aged  form. 


W  ENDYMION.  [book  in. 

Look'd  high  defiance.     Lo !  his  heart  'gan  warm 
With  pity,  for  the  grey-hair'd  creature  wept. 
Had  he  then  wrong'd  a  heart  wliere  sorrow  kept  ? 
Had  he,  though  blindly  contumelious,  brought 
Rheum  to  kind  eyes,  a  sting  to  human  thought, 
Convulsion  to  a  mouth  of  many  years  ? 
He  had  in  truth  ;  and  he  was  ripe,  for  tears. 
The  penitent  shower  fell,  as  down  he  knelt 
Before  that  care-worn  sage,  who  trembling  felt 
About  his  large  dark  locks,  and  faltering  spake : 

"  Arise,  good  youth,  for  sacred  Phoebus'  sake  ! 
I  know  thine  inmost  bosom,  and  I  feel 
A  very  brother's  yearning  for  thee  steal 
Into  mine  own  :   for  why  1  thou  openest 
The  prison-gates  that  have  so  long  oppress'd 
My  weary  watching.     Though  thou  know'st  it  not, 
Thou  art  commission'd  to  this  fated  spot 
For  great  enfranchisement.     O  weep  no  more  ; 
I  am  a  friend  to  love,  to  loves  of  yore : 
Ay,  hadst  thou  never  loved  an  unknown  power, 
I  had  been  grieving  at  this  joyous  hour. 
But  even  now,  most  miserable  old, 
I  saw  thee,  and  my  blood  no  longer  cold 
Gave  mighty  pulses :  in  this  tottering  case 
Grew  a  new  heart,  which  at  this  moment  plays 
As  dancingly  as  thine.     Be  not  afraid. 
For  thou  shalt  hear  this  secret  all  display'd. 
Now  as  we  speed  towards  our  joyous  task." 

So  saying,  this  young  soul  in  age's  mask 
Went  forward  with  the  Carian  side  by  side  : 
Resuming  quickly  thus ;  while  ocean's  tide 


BOOK  m.]  ENDYMION.  70 

Hung  swollen  at  their  backs,  and  jewell'd  sands 

Took  silently  their  foot-prints. 

"  My  soul  stands 
Now  past  the  midway  from  mortality, 
And  so  I  can  prepare  without  a  sigh 
To  tell  thee  briefly  all  my  joy  and  pain. 
I  was  a  fisher  once,  upon  this  main, 
And  my  boat  danced  in  every  creek  and  bay  ; 
Rough  billows  were  my  home  by  night  and  day, — 
The  sea-gulls  not  more  constant ;  for  I  had 
No  housing  from  the  storm  and  tempests  mad, 
But  hollow  rocks, — and  they  were  palaces 
Of  silent  happiness,  of  slumberous  ease  ; 
Long  years  of  misery  have  told  me  so. 
Ay,  thus  it  was  one  thousand  years  ago. 
One  thousand  years  ! — Is  it  then  possible 
To  look  so  plainly  through  them  ?  to  dispel 
A  thousand  years  with  backward  glance  sublime  ? 
To  breathe  away  as  't  were  all  scummy  slime 
From  off  a  crystal  pool,  to  see  its  deep 
And  one's  own  image  from  the  bottom  peep  ? 
Yes  :  now  I  am  no  longer  wretched  thrall. 
My  long  captivity  and  meanings  all 
Are  but  a  slime,  a  thin-pervading  scum, 
The  which  1  breathe  away,  and  thronging  come 
Like  things  of  yesterday  my  youthful  pleasures, 

"  I  touch'd  no  lute,  I  sang  not,  trod  no  measures  : 
I  was  a  lonely  youth  on  desert  shores. 
]\Iy  sports  were  lonely,  'mid  continuous  roars. 
And  craggy  isles,  and  seamews'  plaintive  cry 
Plaining  discrepant  between  sea  and  sky. 


80  ENDYMION.  [book  nr. 

Dolphins  were  still  my  playmates ;  shapes  unseen 
Would  let  me  feel  their  scales  of  gold  and  green, 
Nor  be  my  desolation  ;  and,  full  oft, 
When  a  dread  waterspout  had  rear'd  aloft 
Its  hungry  hugeness,  seeming  ready  ripe 
■   To  burst  with  hoarsest  thunderings,  and  wipe 
My  life  away  like  a  vast  sponge  of  fate, 
Some  friendly  monster,  pitying  my  sad  state, 
Has  dived  to  its  foundations,  gulf 'd  it  down, 
And  left  me  tossing  safely.     But  the  crown 
Of  all  my  life  was  utmost  quietude  : 
More  did  I  love  to  lie  in  cavern  rude, 
Keeping  in  wait  whole  days  for  Neptune's  voice, 
And  if  it  came  at  last,  hark,  and  rejoice  ! 
There  blush'd  no  summer  eve  but  I  would  steer 
My  skiff  along  green  shelving  coasts,  to  hear 
The  shepherd's  pipe  come  clear  from  aei-y  steep, 
Mingled  with  ceaseless  bleatings  of  his  sheep : 
And  never  was  a  day  of  summer  shine, 
But  I  beheld  its  birth  upon  the  brine : 
For  I  would  watch  all  night  to  see  unfold 
Heaven's  gates,  and  jEthon  snort  his  morning  gold 
Wide  o'er  the  swelling  streams :  and  constantly 
At  brim  of  day-tide,  on  some  grassy  lea. 
My  nets  would  be  spread  out,  and  I  at  rest. 
The  poor  folk  of  the  sea-country  I  blest 
With  daily  boon  of  fish  most  delicate  : 
They  knew  not  whence  this  bounty,  and  elate 
Would  strew  sweet  flowers  on  a  sterile  beach. 

"  Why  was  I  not  contented  ?     Wherefore  reach 
At  things  which,  but  for  thee,  O  Latmian  ! 
Had  been  my  dreary  death !     Fool !  I  began 


BOOK  m.]  ENDYMION.  81 

To  feel  distemper'd  longings  :  to  desire 
The  utmost  privilege  that  ocean's  sire 
Could  grant  in  benediction  :  to  be  free 
Of  all  his  kingdom.     Long  in  misery 
I  wasted,  ere  in  one  extremest  fit 
I  plunged  for  life  or  death.     To  interknit 
One's  senses  with  so  dense  a  breathing  stuff 
Might  seem  a  work  of  pain  ;  so  not  enough 
Can  I  admire  how  crystal-smooth  it  felt, 
And  buoyant  round  my  limbs.     At  first  I  dwelt 
Whole  days  and  days  in  sheer  astonishment ; 
Forgetful  utterly  of  self  intent ; 
Moving  but  with  the  mighty  ebb  and  flow. 
Then,  like  a  new-fledged  bird  that  first  doth  show 
His  spreaded  feathers  to  the  morrow  chill, 
I  tried  in  fear  the  pinions  of  my  will. 
'T  was  freedom  !  and  at  once  I  visited 
The  ceaseless  wonders  of  this  ocean-bed. 
No  need  to  tell  thee  of  them,  for  I  see 
That  thou  hast  been  a  witness — it  must  be 
For  these  I  know  thou  canst  not  feel  a  drouth, 
By  the  melancholy  corners  of  that  mouth, 
So  I  will  in  my  story  straightway  pass 
To  more  immediate  matter.     Wo,  alas  ! 
That  love  should  be  my  bane  !     Ah,  Scylla  fair  f 
Why  did  poor  Glaucus  ever — ever  dare 
To  sue  thee  to  his  heart  ?     Kind  stranger- youth  ! 
I  loved  her  to  the  very  white  of  truth. 
And  she  would  not  conceive  it.     Timid  thing ! 
She  fled  me  swift  as  sea-bird  on  the  wing. 
Round  every  isle,  and  point,  and  promontory. 
From  where  large  Flercules  wound  up  his  story 
Far  as  Egyptian  Nile.     My  passion  grew 
5* 


82  ENDYMION.  [book  hi. 

The  more,  the  more  I  saw  her  dainty  hue 
Gleam  delicately  through  the  azure  clear  : 
Until  'twas  too  fierce  agony  to  bear  ; 
And  in  that  agony,  across  my  grief 
It  flash'd,  that  Circe  might  find  some  relief — 
Cruel  enchantress  !     So  above  the  water 
I  rear'd  my  head,  and  look'd  for  Phcebus'  daughter, 
^sea's  isle  was  wondering  at  the  moon  : — 
''        It  seemed  to  whirl  around  me,  and  a  swoon 
Left  me  dead-drifting  to  that  fatal  power. 

''  When  I  awoke,  'twas  in  a  twilight  bower  ; 
Just  when  the  light  of  morn,  with  hum  of  bees. 
Stole  through  its  verdurous  matting  of  fresh  trees. 
How  sweet,  and  sweeter  !  for  I  heard  a  lyre, 
And  over  it  a  sighing  voice  expire. 
It  ceased — I  caught  light  footsteps  ;  and  anon 
The  fairest  face  that  morn  e'er  look'd  upon 
Push'd  through  a  screen  of  roses.     Starry  Jove  ! 
With  tears,  and  smiles,  and  honey-words  she  wove 
A  net  whose  thraldom  was  more  bliss  than  all 
The  range  of  flower'd  Elysium.     Thus  did  fall 
The  dew  of  her  rich  speech  :  '  Ah  !  art  awake? 
Oh  let  me  hear  thee  speak,  for  Cupid's  sake  ! 
I  am  so  oppress'd  with  joy!     Why,  I  have  shed 
An  urn  of  tears,  as  tliough  thou  wert  cold  dead ; 
And  now  I  find  thee  living,  I  will  pour 
From  these  devoted  eyes  their  silver  store, 
Until  exhausted  of  the  latest  drop, 
So  it  will  pleasure  thee,  and  force  thee  stop 
Here,  that  I  too  may  live  :  but  if  beyond 
Such  cool  and  sorrowful  offerings,  thou  art  fond 
Of  soothing  warmth,  of  dalliance  supreme  ; 


BOOK  iii.l  ENDYMION.  83 


If  thou  art  ripe  to  taste  a  long  love-dream  ; 
If  smiles,  if  dimples,  tongues  for  ardor  mute, 
Hang  in  thy  vision  like  a  tempting  fruit, 

0  let  me  pluck  it  for  thee.'     Thus  she  link'd 
Her  charming  syllables,  till  indistinct 
Tlieir  music  cameto  my  o'er-sweeten'd  soul.; 
And  then  she  hover'd  over  me,  and  stole 

So  near,  that  if  no  nearer  it  had  been 

This  furrow'd  visage  thou  hadst  never  seen. 

"  Young  man  of  Latmos  !  thus  particular 
Am  I,  that  thou  may'st  plainly  see  how  far 
This  fierce  temptation  went :  and  thou  may'st  not 
Exclaim,  Flow,  then,  was  Scylla  quite  forgot  ? 

"  Who  could  resist  ?     Who  in  this  universe  ? 
She  did  so  breathe  ambrosia ;  so  immerse 
j\ly  fine  existence  in  a  golden  clime. 
She  took  me  like  a  child  of  suckling  time. 
And  cradled  me  in  roses.     Thus  condemn'd, 
Tiie  current  of  my  former  life  was  stemm'd. 
And  to  this  arbitrary  queen  of  sense 

1  bow'd  a  tranced  vassal  :  nor  would  thence 

Have  moved,  even  though  Amphion's  heart  had  woo'd 

I\Ie  back  to  Scylla  o'er  the  billows  rude. 

For  as  Apollo  each  eve  doth  devise 

A  new  apparelling  for  western  skies  ; 

So  every  eve,  nay  every  spendthrift  hour 

Shed  balmy  consciousness  within  that  bower. 

And  I  was  free  of  haunts  umbrageous ; 

Could  wander  in  the  mazy  forest-house 

Of  squirrels,  foxes  shy,  and  antler'd  deer, 

And  birds  from  coverts  innermost  and  drear 


84  ENDYMION.  [book  hi. 


Warbling  for  very  joy  mellifluous  sorrow — 
To  me  new-born  delights ! 

"  Now  let  nie  borrow 
For  moments  few,  a  temperament  as  stern 
As  Pluto's  sceptre,  that  my  words  not  burn 
These  uttering  lips,  wiiile  I  in  calm  speech  tell 
How  specious  heaven  was  changed  to  real  hell. 

"  One  morn  she  left  me  sleeping  :  half  awako 
I  sought  for  her  smooth  arms  and  lips,  to  slake 
My  greedy  thirst  with  nectarous  camel-draughts  ; 
But  she  was  gone..     Whereat  the  barbed  shafts 
Of  disappointment  stuck  in  me  so  sore, 
That  out  I  ran  and  search'd  the  forest  o'er. 
Wandering  about  in  pine  and  cedar  gloom 
Damp  awe  assail'd  me,  for  there  'gan  to  boom 
A  sound  of  moan,  an  agony  of  sound, 
Sepulchral  from  the  distance  all  around. 
Then  came  a  conquering  earth-thunder,  and  rumbled 
That  fierce  complain  to  silence  ;  while  I  stumbled 
Down  a  precipitous  path,  as  if  impell'd. 
I  came  to  a  dark  valley. — Groanings  swell'd 
Poisonous  about  my  ears,  and  louder  grew, 
The  nearer  I  approach'd  a  flame's  gaunt  blue. 
That  glared  before  me  through  a  thorny  brake. 
This  fire,  like  the  eye  of  gordian  snake, 
Bewitch'd  me  towards  ;  and  I  soon  was  near 
A  sight  too  fearful  for  the  feel  of  fear : 
In  thicket  hid  I  cursed  the  haggard  scene — 
The  banquet  of  my  arms,  my  arbor  queen. 
Seated  upon  an  uptorn  forest  root ; 
And  all  around  her  shapes,  wizard  and  brute, 


BOOK  II..]  ENDYMION.  85 

Laughing,  and  wailing,  grovelliiig,  serpenting. 
Showing  tooth,  tusk,  and  venom-bag,  and  sting ! 
O  such  deformities  !     Old  Charon's  self. 
Should  he  give  up  awhile  his  penny  pelf, 
And  take  a  dream  'mong  rushes  Stygian, 
It  could  not  be  so  phantasied.     Fierce,  wan, 
And  tyrannising  was  the  lady's  look, 
As  over  them  a  gnarled  staff  she  shook. 
Oft-times  upon  the  sudden  she  laugh'd  out, 
And  from  a  basket  emptied  to  the  rout 
Clusters  of  grapes,  the  which  they  raven'd  quick 
And  roar'd  for  more ;  with  many  a  hungry  lick 
About  their  shaggy  jaws.     Avenging,  slow, 
Anon  she  took  a  branch  of  misletoe, 
And  emptied  on  't  a  black  dull-gurgling  phial : 
Groan'd  one  and  all,  as  if  some  piercing  trial 
AVas  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 
She  lifted  up  the  charm  :  appealing  groans 
From  their  poor  breasts  went  suing  to  her  ear 
In  vain ;  remorseless  as  an  infant's  bier 
She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes  the  sooty  oil. 
Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil. 
Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage, 
Shrieks,  yells,  and  groans  of  torture-pilgrimage  j 
Until  their  grieved  bodies  'gan  to  blopt  * 

And  puff  from  the  tail's  end  to  stifled  throat : 
Then  was  appalling  silence  :  then  a  sight 
More  wildering  than  all  that  hoarse  affright ; 
For  the  whole  iierd,  as  by  a  whirlwind  writhen, 
Went  through  the  dismal  air  like  one  huge  Python 
Antagonising  Boreas, — and  so  vanish'd. 
Yet  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  :  she  bani.sh'd 
These  phantoms  with  a  nod.     Lo  !  from  the  dark 


86  ENDYMION.  [book  iii. 


Came  waggish  fauns,  and  nymphs,  and  satyrs  stark, 

With  dancing  and  loud  revelry, — and  went 

Swifter  than  centaurs  after  rapine  bent. — 

Sighing  an  elephant  appear'd  and  bow'd 

Before  the  fierce  witch,  speaking  thus  aloud 

In  human  accent:  '  Potent  goddess  !  chief 

Of  pains  resistless  !  make  my  being  brief, 

Or  let  me  from  this  heavy  prison  fly  : 

Or  give  me  to  the  air,  or  let  me  die  ! 

I  sue  not  for  my  happy  crown  again  ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  phalanx  on  the  plain  ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  lone,  rrr/  widow'd  wife  : 

I  sue  not  for  my  ruddy  drops  of  life. 

My  children  fair,  my  lovely  girls  and  boys  ! 

I  will  forget  them  ;  I  will  pass  these  joys  ; 

Ask  naught  so  heavenward,  so  too — too  high  : 

Only  I  pray,  as  fairest  boon,  to  die. 

Or  be  deliver'd  from  this  cumbrous  flesh, 

From  this  gross,  detestable,  filthy  mesh. 

And  merely  given  to  the  cold  bleak  air. 

Have  raercy.  Goddess  !  Circe,  feel  my  prayer ! ' 

"  That  curst  magician's  name  fell  icy  numb 
Upon  my  wild  conjecturing  :  truth  had  come 
Naked  and  sabre-like  against  my  heart. 
I  saw  a  fury  whetting  a  death-dart ; 
And  my  slain  spirit,  overwrought  with  fright, 
Fainted  away  in  that  dark  lair  of  night. 
Think,  my  deliverer,  how  desolate 
My  waking  must  have  been !  disgust  and  hate. 
And  terrors  manifold  divided  me 
A  spoil  amongst  them.     I  prepared  to  flee 
Into  the  dungeon  core  of  that  wild  wood  : 


BOOK  in  ]  ENDYMION.  87 

I  fled  three  days — when  lo  !  before  me  stood 

Glaring  the  angry  witch.     O  Dis,  even  now, 

A  clammy  dew  is  beading  on  my  brow, 

At  mere  remembering  her  pale  laugh,  and  curse. 

'  Ha  [  ha  !  Sir  Dainty  !  there  must  be  a  nurse 

Made  of  rose-leaves  and  thistle-down,  express, 

To  cradle  thee,  my  sweet,  and  lull  thee  :  yes, 

I  am  too  flinty- hard  for  thy  nice  touch  : 

My  tenderest  squeeze  is  but  a  giant's  clutch. 

So,  fairy-thing,  it  shall  have  lullabies 

Unheard  of  yet ;  and  it  shall  still  its  cries 

Upon  some  breast  more  lily-feminine. 

Oh,  no — it  shall  not  pine,  and  pine,  and  pine 

More  than  one  pretty,  trifling  thousand  years  ; 

And  then  't  were  a  pity,  but  fate's  gentle  shears 

Cut  short  its  immortality.     Sea-flirt ! 

Young  dove  of  the  waters  !  truly  I  '11  not  hurt 

One  hair  of  thine  :  see  how  I  weep  and  sigh. 

That  our  heart-broken  parting  is  so  nigh. 

And  must  we  part  ?  Ah,  yes,  it  must  be  so. 

Yet  ere  thou  leavest  me  in  utter  wo, 

Let  me  sob  over  thee  my  last  adieus. 

And  speak  a  blessing  :  Mark  me  !  thou  hast  thews 

Immortal,  for  thou  art  of  heavenly  race  : 

But  such  a  love  is  mine,  that  here  I  chase 

Eternally  away  from  thee  all  bloom 

Of  youth,  and  destine  thee  towards  a  tomb. 

Hence  shalt  thou  quickly  to  the  watery  vast ; 

And  there,  ere  many  days  be  overpast, 

Disabled  age  shall  seize  thee  ;  and  even  then 

Thou  shalt  not  go  the  way  of  aged  men  ; 

But  live  and  wither,  cripple  and  still  breathe 

Ten  hundred  years:  which  gone,  I  then  bequeath 


88  ENDYMION.  [book  iir. 

Thy  fragile  bones  to  unknown  burial. 

Adieu,  sweet  love,  adieu  ! ' — As  shot  stars  fall, 

She  fled  ere  I  could  groan  for  mercy.     Stung 

And  poisoned  was  my  spirit :  despair  sung 

A  war  song  of  defiance  'gainst  all  hell. 

A  hand  was  at  my  shoulder  to  compel 

My  sullen  steps  ;  another  'fore  my  eyes 

Moved  on  with  pointed  finger.     In  this  guise 

Enforced,  at  the  last  by  ocean's  foam 

I  found  me ;  by  my  fresh,  my  native  home, 

Its  tempering  coolness,  to  my  life  akin. 

Came  salutary  as  I  waded  in  ; 

And,  with  a  blind  voluptuous  rage,  I  gave 

Batlle  to  the  swollen  billow-ridge,  and  drave 

Large  froth  before  me,  while  there  yet  remain'd 

Hale  strength,  nor  from  my  bones  all  marrow  drain'd. 

"  Young  lover,  I  must  weep — such  hellish  spite 
With  dry  cheek  who  can  tell  ?     While  thus  my  might 
Proving  upon  this  element,  dismay'd. 
Upon  a  dead  thing's  face  my  hand  I  laid ; 
I  look'd — 't  was  Scylla !  Cursed,  cursed  Circe  I 

0  vulture-witch,  hast  never  heard  of  mercy  ! 
Could  not  thy  harshest  vengeance  be  content. 
But  thou' must  nip  this  tender  innocent 
Because  I  loved  her  ? — Cold,  O  cold  indeed 
Were  her  fair  limbs,  and  like  a  common  weed 
The  sea-swell  took  her  hair.     Dead  as  she  was 

1  clung  about  her  waist,  nor  ceased  to  pass 
Fleet  as  an  arrow  through  unfathom'd  brine, 
Until  there  shone  a  fabric  crystalline, 

Ribb'd  and  inlaid  with  coral,  pebble,  and  pearl. 
Headlong  I  darted  ;  at  one  eager  swirl 


BOOK  III.]  ENDYMION.  89 


Gain'd  its  bright  portal,  enter'd,  and  behold  ! 
'T  was  vast,  and  desolate,  and  icy-cold  ; 
And  all  around — But  wlicrefore  this  to  thee 
Who  in  few  minutes  more  th5self  shalt  see  ? — 
I  left  poor  Scylla  in  a  niche  and  fled. 
My  fever'd  parchings  up,  my  scathing  dread 
Met  palsy  halfway  :  soon  these  limbs  became 
Gaunt,  wither'd,  sapless,  feeble,  cramp'd,  and  lame. 

"  Now  let  me  pass  a  cruel,  cruel  space, 
Without  one  hope,  without  one  faintest  trace 
Of  mitigation,  or  redeeming  bubble 
Of  color'd  phantasy  ;  for  I  fear  't  would  trouble 
Thy  brain  to  loss  of  reason  :  and  next  tell 
How  a  restoring  chance  came  down  to  quell 
One  half  of  the  witch  in  me. 

"  On  a  day, 
Sitting  upon  a  rock  above  the  spray, 
I  saw  grow  up  from  the  horizon's  brink 
A  gallant  vessel :  soon  she  seem'd  to  sink 
Away  from  me  again,  as  though  her  course 
Had  been  resum'd  in  spite  of  hindering  force — 
So  vanish'd  :  and  not  long,  before  arose 
Dark  clouds,  and  muttering  of  winds  morose. 
Old  iEolus  would  stifle  his  mad  spleen, 
But  could  not,  therefore  all  the  billows  green 
Toss'd  up  the  silver  spume  against  the  clouds. 
The  tempest  came  :  I  saw  that  vessel's  shrouds 
In  perilous  bustle  ;  while  upon  the  deck 
Stood  trembling  creatures.     I  beheld  the  wreck  ; 
The  final  gulfing  ;  the  poor  struggling  souls ; 
I  heard  their  cries  amid  loud  thunder-rolls. 


90  ENDYMION.  [book  ni. 


0  they  had  all  been  saved  but  crazed  eld 
Annull'd  my  vigorous  cravings  :  and  thus  quell'd 
And  curb'd,  think  on  't,  O  Latmian  !  did  I  sit 
Writhing  with  pity,  and  a  cursing  fit 

Against  that  hell-born  Circe,     The  crew  had  gone, 

By  one  and  one,  to  pale  oblivion  ; 

And  I  was  gazing  on  the  surges  prone, 

With  many  a  scalding  tear,  and  many  a  groan, 

When  at  my  feet  emerged  an  old  man's  hand, 

Grasping  this  scroll,  and  this  same  slender  wand. 

1  knelt  with  pain — reach 'd  out  my  hand — had  grasp'd 
These  treasures — touch'd  the  knuckles — they  unclasp'd — 
I  caught  a  finger :  but  the  downward  weight 
O'erpower'd  me — it  sank.     Then  'gan  abate 

The  storm,  and  through  chill  aguish  gloom  outburst 

The  comfortable  sun.     I  was  athirst 

To  search  the  book,  and  in  the  warming  air 

Parted  its  dripping  leaves  with  eager  care. 

Strange  matters  did  it  treat  of,  and  drew  on 

My  soul  page  after  page,  till  well  nigh  won 

Into  forgetfulness  ;  when,  stupefied, 

I  read  these  words,  and  read  again,  and  tried 

My  eyes  against  the  heavens,  and  read  again. 

O  what  a  load  of  misery  and  pain 

Each  Atlas  line  bore  off"! — a  shine  of  hope 

Came  gold  around  me,  cheering  me  to  cope 

Strenuous  with  hellish  tyranny.     Attend  ! 

For  thou  hast  brought  their  promise  to  an  end. 

"  '  In  the  wide  sea  there  lives  a  forlorn  wretch, 
Doom'd  with  enfeebled  carcase  to  outstretch 
His  loathed  existence  through  ten  centuries, 
And  then  to  die  alone.     Who  can  devise 


BOOK  III.]  ENDYMION.  91 

A  total  opposition  ?     No  one.     So 

One  million  times  ocean  must  ebb  and  flow, 

And  he  oppressed.     Yet  he  shall  not  die, 

These  things  accomplish'd  : — If  he  utterly 

Scans  all  the  depths  of  magic,  and  expounds 

The  meanings  of  all  motions,  shapes,  and  sounds  ; 

If  he  explores  all  forms  and  substances 

Straight  homeward  to  their  symbol-essences  ; 

He  shall  not  die.     Moreover,  and  in  chief, 

He  must  pursue  this  task  of  joy  and  grief 

Most  piously  ; — all  lovers  tempest-tost, 

And  in  the  savage  overwhelming  lost, 

He  shall  deposit  side  by  side,  until 

Time's  creeping  shall  the  dreary  space  fulfil : 

Which  done,  and  all  these  labors  ripened, 

A  youth,  by  heavenly  power  loved  and  led. 

Shall  stand  before  him  ;  whom  he  shall  direct 

How  to  consummate  all.     The  youth  elect 

Must  do  the  thing,  or  both  will  he  destroy 'd.'  " 

"  Then,"  cried  the  young  Endymion,  overjoy'd, 
"  We  are  twin  brothers  in  this  destiny  ! 
Say,  I  entreat  thee,  what  achievement  high 
Is,  in  this  restless  world,  for  me  reserved. 
What!  if  from  thee  my  wandering  feet  had  swerved. 
Had  we  both  perish'd  ?" — "Look  !  "  the  sage  replied, 
*'  Dost  thou  not  mark  a  gleaming  through  the  tide. 
Of  divers  brilliances  ?  't  is  the  edifice 
I  told  thee  of,  where  lovely  Scylla  lies  ; 
And  where  I  have  enshrined  piously 
All  lovers,  whom  fell  storms  have  dooni'd  to  die 
Throughout  my  bondage."     Tlius  discoursing,  on 
They  went  till  unobscured  the  porches  shone  ; 


92  ENDYMION.  [book  in. 

Which  hurryingly  they  gain'd,  and  enter'd  straight. 

Sure  never  since  king  Neptune  held  his  state 

Was  seen  such  wonder  underneath  the  stars. 

Turn  to  some  level  plain  where  haughty  Mars 

Has  legion'd  all  his  battle  ;  and  behold 

How  every  soldier,  with  firm  foot,  doth  hold 

His  even  breast :  see,  many  steeled  squares. 

And  rigid  ranks  of  iron — whence  who  dares 

One  step  ?     Imagine  further,  line  by  line, 

These  warrior  thousands  on  the  field  supine  : — 

So  in  that  crystal  place,  in  silent  rows. 

Poor  lovers  lay  at  rest  from  joys  and  woes. 

The  stranger  from  the  mountains,  bi'eathless,  traced 

Such  thousands  of  shut  eyes  in  order  placed  ; 

Such  ranges  of  white  feet,  and  patient  lips 

All  ruddy, — for  here  death  no  blossom  nips. 

He  mark'd  their  brows  and  'foreheads  ;  saw  their  hair 

Put  sleekly  on  one  side  with  nicest  care  ; 

And  each  one's  gentle  wrists,  with  reverence, 

Put  cross- wise  to  its  heart. 

•    .  "  Let  us  commence 

(Whisper'd  the  guide,  stuttering  with  joy)  even  now." 
He  spake,  and,  trembling  like  an  aspen-bough, 
Began  to  tear  his  scroll  in  pieces  small, 
Uttering  the  while  some  mumblings  funeral. 
He  tore  it  into  pieces  small  as  snow 
That  drifts  unfeather'd  when  bleak  northerns  blow  ; 
And  having  done  it,  took  his  dark  blue  cloak 
And  bound  it  round  Endymion  :  then  struck 
His  wand  against  the  empty  air  times  nine. 
"What  more  there  is  to  do,  young  man,  is  thine  : 
But  first  a  little  patience  ;  first  undo 


BOOK  III.]  ENDYMION.  93 

This  tangled  thread,  and  wind  it  to  a  clue 

Ah,  gentle  !  't  is  as  weak  as  spider's  skein  ; 

And  shouldst  thou  break  it — What,  is  it  done  so  clean  ? 

A  power  overshadows  thee  !     Oh,  brave  ! 

The  spite  of  hell  is  tumbling  to  its  grave. 

Here  is  a  shell ;  'tis  pearly  blank  to  me. 

Nor  mark'd  with  any  sign  or  charactery — 

Canst  thou  read  aught  ?     O  read  for  pity's  sake  ! 

Olympus  !  we  are  safe  !     Now,  Carian,  break 

This  wand  against  yon  lyre  on  the  pedestal." 

'T  was  done  :  and  straight  with  sudden  swell  and  fall 
Sweet  music  breathed  her  soul  away,  and  sigh'd 
A  lullaby  to  silence. — *'  Youth,  now  strew 
These  minced  leaves  on  me,  and  passing  through 
Those  files  of  dead,  scatter  the  same  around, 
And  thou  wilt  see  the  issue." — 'Mid  the  sound 
Of  flutes  and  viols,  ravishing  his  heart, 
Endymion  from  Glaucus  stood  apart. 
And  scatter 'd  in  his  face  some  fragments  lijiht. 
How  lightning-swift  the  change  !  a  youthful  wight 
Smiling  beneath  a  coral  diadem. 
Out-sparkling  sudden  like  an  upturn'd  gem, 
Appear'd,  and,  stepping  to  a  beauteous  corse, 
Kneel'd  down  beside  it,  and  with  tenderest  force 
Press'd  its  cold  hand,  and  wept — and  Scylla  sigh'd ! 
Endymion,  with  quick  hand,  the  charm  applied — 
The  nymph  arose  :  he  left  them  to  their  joy, 
And  onward  went  upon  his  high  employ, 
Showering  those  powerful  fragments  on  the  dead, 
And,  as  he  pass'd,  each  lifted  up  its  head. 
As  doth  a  flower  at  Apollo's  touch. 
Death  felt  it  to  his  inwards  ;  't  was  too  much : 


94  .  ENDYMION.  [book  hi. 

Death  fell  a-weeping  in  his  charnel-house. 

The  Latmian  persevered  along,  and  thus 

All  were  reanimated.     There  arose 

A  noise  of  harmony,  pulses  and  throes 

Of  gladness  in  the  air — while  many,  who 

Had  died  in  mutual  arms  devout  and  true, 

Sprang  to  each  other  madly  ;  and  the  rest 

Felt  a  high  certainty  of  being  blest. 

They  gazed  upon  Endymion.     Enchantment 

Grew  drunken,  and  would  have  its  head  and  bent. 

Delicious  symphonies,  like  airy  flowers, 

Budded,  and  swell'd,  and,  full-blown,  shed  full  showers 

Of  light,  soft,  unseen  leaves  of  sounds  divine. 

The  two  deliverers  tasted  a  pure  wine 

Of  happiness,  from  fairy  press  oozed  out. 

Speechless  they  eyed  each  other,  and  about 

The  fair  assembly  wander'd  to  and  fro, 

Distracted  with  the"  richest  overflow 

Of  joy  that  ever  pour'd  from  heaven. 

—"Away!" 
Shouted  the  new-born  god  ;  "  Follow,  and  pay 
Our  piety  to  Neptunus  supreme  !'' — 
Then  Scylla,  blushing  sweetly  from  her  dream, 
They  led  on  first,  bent  to  her  meek  surprise, 
Through  portal  columns  of  a  giant  size 
Into  the  vaulted,  boundless  emerald. 
Joyous  all  follow'd,  as  the  leader  call'd, 
Down  marble  steps  ;  pouring  as  easily 
As  hour-glass  sand — and  fast,  as  you  might  see 
Swallows  obeying  the  south  summer's  call, 
Or  swans  upon  a  gentle  waterfall. 


BOOK  III.]  ENDYMION.  95 

Thus  went  that  beautiful  multitude,  nor  far, 
Ere  from  among  some  rocks  of  glittering  spar, 
Just  within  ken,  they  saw  descending  thick 
Another  multitude.     Whereat  more  quick 
Moved  either  host.     On  a  wide  sand  they  met. 
And  of  those  numbers  every  eye  was  wet ; 
For  each  their  old  love  found.     A  murmuring  rose, 
Like  what  was  never  heard  in  all  the  throes 
Of  wind  and  waters  :  't  is  past  human  wit 
To  tell ;   't  is  dizziness  to  think  of  it. 

This  mighty  consummation  made,  the  host 
Moved  on  for  many  a  league  ;  and  gain'd  and  lost 
Huge  sea-marks ;  vanward  swelling  in  array. 
And  from  the  rear  diminishing  away. 
Till  a  faint  dawn  surprised  them.     Glaucus  cried, 
"  Behold  !  behold,  the  palace  of  his  pride  ! 
God  Neptune's  palaces  !"      With  noise  increased. 
They  shoulder'd  on  towards  that  brightening  east. 
At  every  onward  step  proud  domes  arose 
In  prospect,  diamond  gleams  and  golden  glows 
Of  amber  'gainst  their  faces  levelling. 
Joyous,  and  many  as  the  leaves  in  spring, 
Still  onward  ;  still  the  splendor  gradual  swell'd. 
Rich  opal  domes  were  seen,  on  high  upheld 
By  jasper  pillars,  letting  through  their  shafts 
A  blush  of  coral.     Copious  wonder-draughts 
Each  gazer  drank  ;  and  deeper  drank  more  near : 
For  what  poor  mortals  fragment  up,  as  mere 
As  marble  was  there  lavish,  to  the  vast 
Of  one  fair  palace,  that  far,  far  surpass'd, 
Even  for  common  bulk,  those  olden  three, 
Memphis,  and  Babylon,  and  Nineveh. 


96  ENDYMION.  [book  hi. 

, m. . 

As  large,  as  bright,  as  color'd  as  the  bow 
Of  Iris,  when  unfading  it  dotli  show 
Beyond  a  silvery  shower,  was  the  arch 
Through  which  this  Paphian  army  took  its  march. 
Into  the  outer  courts  of  Neptune's  state : 
Whence  could  be  seen,  direct,  a  golden  gate, 
To  which  the  leaders  sped ;  but  not  half  raught 
Ere  it  burst  open  swift  as  fairy  thought, 
And  made  those  dazzled  thousands  veil  their  eyes 
Like  callow  eagles  at  the  first  sunrise. 
Soon  with  an  eagle  nativeness  their  gaze 
Ripe  from  hue-golden  swoons  took  all  the  blaze, 
And  then,  behold !  large  Neptune  on  his  throne 
Of  emerald  deep  :  yet  not  exalt  alone  ; 
At  his  right  hand  stood  winged  Love,  and  on 
His  left  sat  smiling  Beauty's  paragon. 

Far  as  the  mariner  on  highest  mast 
Can  see  all  round  upon  the  calmed  vast, 
So  wide  was  Neptune's  hall :  and  as  the  blue 
Doth  vault  the  waters,  so  the  waters  drew 
Their  doming  curtains,  high,  magnificent, 
Awed  from  the  throne  aloof; — and  when  stoi'm-rent 
Disclosed  the  thunder-gloomings  in  Jove's  air  ; 
But  soothed  as  now,  flash'd  sudden  everywhere, 
Noiseless,  sub-marine  cloudlets,  glittering 
Death  to  a  human  eye :  for  there  did  spring 
From  natural  west,  and  east,  and  south,  and  north, 
A  light  as  of  four  sunsets,  blazing  forth 
A  gold-green  zenith  'bove  the  Sea-God's  head. 
Of  lucid  depth  the  floor,  and  far  outspread 
As  breezeless  lake,  on  which  the  slim  canoe 
Of  feather'd  Indian  darts  about,  as  through 


BOOK  III.]  EXDYMION.  97 


The  delicatest  air  :  air  verily, 
But  for  the  portraiture  of  clouds  and  sky  : 
This  palace  floor  breath-air, — but  for  the  amaze 
Of  deep-seen  wonders  motionless, — and  blaze 
Of  the  dome  pomp,  reflected  in  extremes, 
Globing  a  golden  sohere.  • 

They  stood  in  dreams 
Till  Triton  blew  his  horn.     The  palace  rang ; 
The  Nereids  danced  ;  the  Syrens  faintly  sang  ; 
And  the  great  Sea-King  bow'd  his  dripping  head. 
Then  Love  took  wing,  and  from  his  pinions  shed 
On  all  the  multitude  a  nectarous  dew. 
The  ooze-born  Goddess  beckoned  and  drew 
Fair  Scylla  and  her  guides  to  conference  ; 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  throned  eminence 
She  kiss'd  the  sea-nymph's  cheek,  who  sat  her  down 
A  toying  with  the  doves.     Then,  "  Mighty  crown 
And  sceptre  of  this  kingdom!  "  Venus  said, 
"  Thy  vows  were  on  a  time  to  Nais  paid  : 
Behold  !  " — Two  copious  tear-drops  instant  fell 
From  the  God's  large  eyes;  he  smiled  delectable, 
And  over  Glaucus  held  his  blessing  hands. — 
"  Endymion  !     Ah  !  still  wandering  in  the  bands 
Of  love?     Now  this  is  cruel.     Since  the  hour 
I  met  thee  in  earth's  bosom,  all  my  power 
Have  I  put  forth  to  serve  thee.     What,  not  yet 
Escaped  from  dull  mortality's  harsh  net  ? 
A  little  patience,  youth  !  't  will  not  be  long, 
Or  I  am  skilless  quite :  an  idle  tongue, 
A  humid  eye,  and  steps  luxurious, 
Where  these  are  new  and  strange,  are  ominous. 
Ay,  I  have  seen  these  signs  in  one  of  heaven, 

PART   I  6 


gS  ENDYMION.  [book  in. 


When  others  were  all  blind ;  and  were  I  given 

To  utter  secrets,  haply  I  might  say 

Some  pleasant  words  :  but  Love  will  have  his  day. 

So  wait  awhile  expectant.     Pr'ythee  soon, 

Even  in  the  passing  of  thine  honey-moon, 

Visit  my  Cytherea  :  thou  wilt  find 

Cupid  well-natured,  my  Adonis  kind  ; 

And  pray  persuade  with  thee — All.  I  have  done, 

All  blisses  be  upon  thee,  my  sweet  son  !  " — 

Thus  the  fair  Goddess  :  while  Endymion 

Knelt  to  receive  those  accents  halcyon. 

Meantime  a  glorious  revelry  began 
Before  the  Water- Monarch.     Nectar  ran 
In  courteous  fountains  to  all  cups  outreach'd  ; 
And  plunder'd  vines,  teeming  exhaustless,  pleach'cl 
New  growth  about  each  shell  and  pendent  lyre  ; 
The  which,  in  entangling  for  their  fire, 
PuU'd  down  fresh  foliage  and  coverture 
For  dainty  toy.     Cupid,  empire-sure. 
Fluttered  and  laugh'd,  and  oft-times  through  the  throng 
Made  a  delighted  way.     Then  dance,  and  song, 
And  garlanding,  grew  wild  ;  and  pleasure  reign'd. 
In  harmless  tendril  they  each  other  chain'd, 
And  strove  who  should  be  smother'd  deepest  in 
Fresh  crush  of  leaves. 

O  't  is  a  very  sin 
For  one  so  weak  to  venture  his  poor  verse 
In  such  a  place  as  this.     O  do  not  curse, 
High  Muses  !  let  him  hurry  to  the  ending- 
All  suddenly  wiere  silent.     A  soft  blending 


BOOK  III.]  ENDYMION.  90 

Of  dulcet  instruments  came  charmingly  ; 
And  then  a  hymn. 

"  King  of  the  stormy  sea  ! 
Brother  of  Jove,  and  co-inheritor 
Of  elements  !  Eternally  before 
Thee  the  waves  awful  bow.     Fast,  stubborn  rock, 
At  thy  fear'd  trident  shrinking,  doth  unlock 
Its  deep  foundations,  hissing  into  foam. 
All  mountain-rivers  lost,  in  the  wide  home 
Of  thy  capacious  bosom  ever  flow. 
Thou  frownest,  and  old  ..iEolus  thy.  foe 
Skulks  to  his  cavern,  'mid  the  grufT  complaint 
Of  all  his  rebel  tempests.     Dark  clouds  faint 
When,  from  thy  diadem,  a  silver  gleam 
Slants  over  blue  dominion.     Thy  bright  team 
Gulfs  in  the  morning  light,  and  scuds  along 
To  bring  thee  nearer  to  that  golden  song 
Apollo  singeth,  while  his  chariot 
Waits  at  the  doors  of  heaven.     Thou  art  not 
For  scenes  like  this:  an  empire  stern  hast  thou  ; 
And  it  hath  furrow'd  that  large  front :  yet  now, 
.As  newly  come  of  heaven,  dost  thou  sit 
To  blend  and  interknit 
Subdued  majesty  with  this  glad  time. 
O  shell-born  King  sublime  ! 
We  lay  our  hearts  before  thee  evermore — 
We  sing,  and  we  adore  ! 

"  Breathe  softly,  flutes ; 
Be  tender  of  your  strings,  ye  soothing  lutes; 
Nor  be  the  trumpet  heard  !  O  vain,  O  vain  ! 
Not  flowers  budding  in  an  April  rain, 


100  ENDYMION.  [book  hi. 


Nor  breath  of  slesping  dove,  nor  river's  flow — 

No,  nor  the  ^olian  twang  of  Love's  own  bow, 

Can  mingle  music  fit  for  the  soft  ear 

Of  goddess  Cytherea  ! 

Yet  deign,  white  Queen  of  Beauty,  thy  fair  eyes 

On  our  souls'  sacrilice. 

"  Bright-winged  Child  ! 
Who  has  another  ca,re  when  thou  hast  smiled  ? 
Unfortunates  on  earth,  we  see  at  last 
All  death-shadows,  and  glooms  that  overcast 
Our  spirits,  fann'd  away  by  thy  light  pinions. 
O  sweetest  essence  !  sweetest  of  all  minions  ! 
God  of  warm  pulses,  and  dishevell'd  hair, 
And  panting  bosoms  bare  ! 
Dear  unseen  light  in  darkness  !  eclipser 
Of  light  in  light !  delicious  poisoner  ! 
Thy  venom'd  goblet  will  we  quaff  until 
We  fill— we  fill  ! 
And  by  thy  Mother's  lips " 

Was  heard  no  more 
For  clamor,  when  the  golden  palace-door 
Open'd  again,  and  from  without,  in  shone 
A  new  magnificence.     On  oozy  throne 
Smooth-moving  came  Oceanus  the  old. 
To  take  a  latest  glimpse  at  his  sheep-fold, 
Before  he  went  into  his  quiet  cave 
To  muse  for  ever — Then  a  lucid  wave, 
Scoop'd  from  its  trembling  sisters  of  mid-sea, 
Afloat,  and  pillowing  up  the  majesty 
Of  Doris,  and  the  ^Egean  seer,  her  spouse — 
Next,  on  a  dolphin,  clad  in  laurel  boughs, 


I  # 


BOOK  III.]  ENDYMION.  101 

Theban  Amphion  leaning  on  his  lute  : 
His  fingers  went  across  it — All  were  mute 
To  gaze  on  Amplutrite,  queen  of  pearls, 
And  Thetis  pearly  too. — 

The  palace  whirls 
Around  giddy  Endymion  ;  seeing  he 
Was  there  far  strayed  from  mortality. 
He  could  not  bear  it — shut  his  eyes  in  vain ; 
Imagination  gave  a  dizzier  pain. 
"01  shall  die !  sweet  Venus,  be  my  stay  ! 
Where  is  my  lovely  mistress  !     Well-away  ! 
I  die — I  hear  her  voice — I  feel  my  wing — " 
At  Neptune's  feet  he  sank.     A  sudden  ring 
Of  Nereids  were  about  him,  in  kind  strife 
To  usher  back  his  spirit  into  life : 
But  still  he  slept.     At  last  they  interwove 
Their  cradling  arms,  and  purposed  to  convey 
Towards  a  crystal  bower  far  avvay. 

Lo  !  while  slow  carried  through  the  pitying  crowd, 
To  his  inward  senses  these  words  spake  aloud  ; 
Written  in  star-light  on  the  dark  above  : 
"  Dearest  Endymion  !  my  entire  love  ! 
How  have  I  dwelt  in  fear  of  fate  ;   't  is  done — 
Immortal  bliss  for  me  too  hast  thou  won. 
Arise  then !  for  the  hen-dove  shall  not  hatch 
Her  ready  eggs,  before  I  '11  kissing  snatch 
Thee  into  endless  heaven.     Awake  !  awake  !" 

The  youth  at  once  arose  :  a  placid  lake 
Came  quiet  to  his  eyes ;  and  forest  green, 
Cooler  than  all  the  wonder  lie  had  seen, 
Lull'd  with  its  simple  song  his  fluttering  breast. 
How  happy  once  again  in  grassy  nest  ! 


102  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 


BOOK  IV. 


Muse  of  my  native  land  !  loftiest  Muse ! 

O  first-born  on  the  mountains  !     By  the  hues 

Of  heaven  on  the  spiritual  air  begot : 

Long  didst  thou  sit  alone  in  northern  grot, 

While  yet  our  England  was  a  wolfish  den ; 

Before  our  forests  heard  the  talk  of  men ; 

Before  the  first  of  Druids  was  a  child  ; — 

Long  didst  thou  sit  amid  our  regions  wild, 

Rapt  in  a  deep  prophetic  solitude. 

There  came  an  eastern  voice  of  solemn  mood  : — 

Yet  wast  thou  patient.     Then  sang  forth  the  Nine, 

Apollo's  garland  : — yet  didst  thou  divine 

Such  home-bred  glory,  that  they  cried  in  vain, 

"  Come  hither,  Sister  of  the  Island  !"  Plain 

Spake  fair  Auson'ia ;  and  once  more  she  spake 

A  higlier  summons: — still  didst  ihou  betake 

Thee  to  thy  native  hopes.     O  thou  hast  won 

A  full  accomplishment !  The  thing  is  done. 

Which  undone,  these  our  latter  days  had  risen 

On  barren  souls.     Great  Muse,  thou  know'st  what  prison 

Of  flesh  and  bone,  curbs,  and  confines,  and  frets 

Our  spirits'  wings:  despondency  besets 

Our  pillows  ;  ■  and  the  fresh  to-morrow  morn 

Seems  to  give  forth  its  light  in  very  scorn 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  103 

Of  our  dull,  uninspired,  snail-paced  lives. 
Long  have  I  said,  how  happy  he  who  shrives 
To  thee  !     But  then  I  thought  on  jwets  gone, 
And  could  not  pray  : — nor  can  I  now — so  on 
I  nnove  to  the  end  in  lowliness  of  heart. 

"  Ah,  wo  is  me !  that  I  should  fondly  part 
From  my  dear  native  land  !     Ah,  foolish  maid  ! 
Glad  was  the  hour,  when,  with  thee,  myriads  bade 
Adieu  to  Ganges  and  their  pleasant  fields ! 
To  one  so  friendless  the  clear  freshet  yields 
A  bitter  coolness;  the  ripe  grape  is  sour: 
Yet  1  would  have,  great  gods!  but  one' short  hour 
Of  native  air — let  me  but  die  at  home." 

Endymion  to  heaven's  airy  dome 
Was  offering  up  a  hecatomb  of  vows. 
When  these  words  reach'd  him.     Whereupon  he  bows 
His  head  through  thorny-green  entanglement  -% 

Of  underwood,  and  to  tlic  sound  is  bent, 
Anxious  as  hind  towards  her  hidden  fawn. 

"  Is  no  one  near  to  help  me  I  No  fair  dawn 
Of  life  from  charitable  voice  ?   No  sweet  saying 
To  set  my  dull  and  saddcn'd  spirit  playing! 
No  hand  to  toy  with  mine  ?   No  lips  so  sweet 
That  I  may  worship  them  ?  No  eyelids  meet 
To  twinkle  on  my  bosom  ?  No  one  dies  . 

Before  me,  till  from  these  enslaving  eyes 
Redemption  sparkles  I — 1  am  sad  and  lost." 

Thou,  Carian  lord,  hadst  better  have  been  tost 
Into  a  whirlpool.     Vanish  into  air, 


r 


104  . .  ENDYMION.  [book  iv 

Warm  mountaineer !  for  canst  thou  only  bear 
A  woman's  sigh  alone  and  in  distress? 
See  not  her  charms  !  Is  Phoebe  passionless  ? 
Phoebe  is  fairer  far — O  gaze  no  more : — 
Yet  if  thou  wilt  behold  all  beauty's  store, 
Behold  her  panting  in  the  forest  grass ! 
Do  not  those  curls  of  glossy  jet  surpass 
For  tenderness  the  arms  so  idly  Iain 
Amongst  them  ?  Feelest  not  a  kindred  pain, 
To  see  such  lovely  eyes  in  swimming  search 
After  some  warm  delight,  that  seems  to  perch 
Dovelike  in  the  dim  cell  lying  beyond 
Their  upper  lids ! — Hist ! 

"  O  for  Hermes'  wand, 
To  touch  this  flower  into  human  shape ! 
That  woodland  Hyacinthus  could  escape 
From  his  green  prison,  and  here  kneeling  down 
Call  me  his  queen,  his  second  life's  fair  crown  ! 
'    Ah  me,  how  I  could  love  ! — My  soul  doth  melt 
For  the  unhappy  youth — Love  !  I  have  felt 
So  faint  a  kindness,  such  a  meek  surrender 
To  what  my  own  full  thoughts  had  made  too  tender, 
That  but  for  tears  my  life  had  fled  away  ! — 
Ye  deaf  and  senseless  minutes  of  the  day, 
And  thou,  old  forest,  hold  ye  this  for  true, 
There  is  no  lightning,  no  authentic  dew 
But  in  the  eye  of  love :  there's  not  a  sound. 
Melodious  howsoever,  can  confound 
The  heavens  and  earth  in  one  to  such  a  death 
As  doth  the  voice  of  love  :  there's  not  a  breath 
Will  mingle  kindly  with  the  meadow  air, 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  10' 

Till  it  has  panted  round,  and  stolen  a  share 
Of  passion  from  the  heart !  " — 

Upon  a  bough 
He  leant,  wretched.     He  surely  cannot  now 
Thirst  for  another  love  :  O  impious 
That  he  can  even  dream  upon  it  thus  ! 
Thought  he,  "  Why  am  I  not  as  are  the  dead, 
Since  to  a  wo  like  this  I  have  been  led 
Through  the  dark  earth,  and  through  the  wondrous  sea  ? 
Goddess  !  I  love  thee  not  the  less :  from  thee 
By  Juno's  smile  I  turn  not — no,  no,  no — 
While  the  great  waters  are  at  ebb  and  flow, — 
I  have  a  triple  soul !  O  fond  pretence — 
For  both,  for  both  my  love  is  so  immense, 
I  feel  my  heart  is  cut  in  twain  for  them." 

And  so  he  groan'd,  as  one  by  beauty  slain. 
The  lady's  heart  beat  quick,  and  he  could  see 
Her  gentle  bosom  heave  tumultuously. 
He  sprang  from  his  green  covert :  there  she  lay, 
Sweet  as  a  musk-rose  upon  new-made  hay  ; 
With  all  her  limbs  on  tremble,  and  her  eyes 
Shut  softly  up  alive.     To  speak  he  tries  : 
"  Fair  damsel,  pity  me  !  forgive  me  that  I 
Thus  violate  thy  bower's  sanctity  ! 

0  pardon  me,  for  I  am  full  of  grief — 

Grief  born  of  thee,  young  angel !  fairest  thief! 
Who  stolen  hast  away  the  wings  wherewith 

1  was  to  top  the  heavens.     Dear  maid,  sith 
Thou  art  my  executioner,  and  I  feel 
Loving  and  hatred,  misery  and  weal, 

Will  in  a  few  short  hours  be  nothing  to  me, 
6- 


106  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 

And  all  my  story  that  much  passion  slew  me  ; 

Do  smile  upon  the  evening  of  my  days  ; 

And,  for  my  tortured  brain  begins  to  craze, 

Be  thou  my  nurse  ;  and  let  ntie  understand 

How  dying  I  shall  kiss  that  lily  hand. — 

Dost  weep  for  me  !     Then  should  I  be  content. 

Scowl  on,  ye  fates !  until  the  firmament 

Oulblackens  Erebus,  and  the  full-cavern'd  earth 

Crumbles  into  itself.     By  the  cloud-girth 

Of  Jove,  those  tears  have  given  me  a  thirst 

To  meet  oblivion." — As  her  heart  would  burst 

The  maiden  sobbed  awhile,  and  then  replied : 

"  Why  must  such  desolation  betide 

As  that  thou  speakest  of?     Are  not  these  green  nooks 

Empty  of  all  misfortune  ?     Do  the  brooks 

Utter  a  gorgon  voice  ?     Does  yonder  thrush, 

Schooling  its  half  fledged  little  ones  to  brush 

About  the  dewy  forest,  whisper  tales  ? — 

Speak  not  of  grief,  young  stranger,  or  cold  snails 

Will  slime  the  rose  to-night.     Though  if  thou  wilt, 

Methinks  't  would  be  a  guilt — a  very  guilt — 

Not  to  companion  thee,  and  sigh  away 

The  light — the  dusk — the  dark — till  brealf  of  day  ! " 

"  Dear  lady,"  said  Endymion,  "  't  is  past : 

I  love  thee !  and  my  days  can  never  last. 

That  I  may  pass  in  patience  still  speak  : 

Let  me  have  music  dying,  and  1  seek 

No  more  delight — I  bid  adieu  to  all. 

Didst  thou  not  after  other  climates  call. 

And  murmur  about  Indian  streams?" — Then  she, 

Sitting  beneath  the  midmost  forest  tree. 

For  pity  sang  this  roundelay 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  107 

"  O  Sorrow  ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health,  from  vermeil  lips  ? — 

To  give  maiden  blushes 

To  the  white  rose  bushes  ? 
Or  is  it  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

"  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon-eye  ? — 

To  give  the  glow-worm  light  ? 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night. 
To  tinge,  on  syren  shores,  the  salt  sea-spry  1 

"  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  mellow  ditties  from  a  mourning  tongue  ? — 

To  give  at  evening  pale 

Unto  the  nightingale, 
That  thou  mayst  listen  the  cold  dews  among  ? 

«  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
Heart's  lightness  from  the  merriment  of  May  ? 

A  lover  would  not  tread 

A  cowslip  on  the  head, 
Though  he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep  of  day — 

Nor  any  drooping  flower 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bower, 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

«  To  Sorrow 
I  bade  good  morrow, 


108  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 


And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind  ; 

But  cheerly,  cheerly, 

She  loves  me  dearly  ; 
She  is  so  constant  to  me,  and  so  kind  : 

I  would  deceive  her, 

And  so  leave  her, 
But  ah  !  she  is  so  constant  and  ko  kind. 

"  Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a  weeping :  in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept — 

And  so  I  kept 
Brimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 

*'  Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a  weeping  :  what  enamor'd  bride. 
Cheated  by  shadowy  wooer  from  the  clouds. 

But  hides  and  shrouds 
Beneath  dark  palm-trees  by  a  river  side? 

"  And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers  :  the  rills 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue — 

"T  was  Bacchus  and  his  crew  ! 
The  earnest  trumpet  spake,  and  silver  thrills 
From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din — 

'T  was  Bacchus  and  his  kin  ! 
Like  to  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came, 
Crown'd  with  green  leaves,  and  faces  all  on  flame  ; 
All  madly  dancing  through  the  pleasant  valley, 

To  scare  thee,  Melancholy  ! 
O  then,  O  then,  thou  wast  a  simple  name  ! 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  109 

And  I  forgot  thee,  as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten,  when  in  June, 
Tall  chestnuts  keep  away  the  sun  and  moon  : — 
I  rush'd  into  the  folly  ! 

"  Within  his  car,  aloft,  young  Bacchus  stood, 
Trifling  his  ivy-dart,  in  dancing  mood, 

With  sidelong  laughing ; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbrued 
His  plump  white  arms,  and  shoulders,  enough  white 

For  Venus'  pearly  bite  ; 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass, 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  he  on  did  pass 

Tipsily  quaffing. 

"  Whence  came  ye,  merry  Damsels  ?  whence  came  yc, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate, 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate  ? 
•  We  follow  Bacchus  !  Bacchus  on  the  wing, 

A  conquering ! 
Bacchus,  young  Bacchus  !  good  or  ill  betide, 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide  : — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  wild  minstrelsy  !' 

"  Whence  came  ye,  jolly  Satyrs  !  whence  came  ye, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,  why  left 

Your  nuts  in  oak,"tree  cleft? — 
'  For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree  ; 
For  wine  we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow  brooms, 

And  cold  mushrooms ; 


110  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 

For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the  earth  ; 
Great  god  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping  mirth  ! 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 
To  our  mad  minstrelsy  !' 

"  Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great  we  went, 
And,  save  when  Bacchus  kept  his  ivy  tent, 
Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants. 

With  Asian  elephants  : 
Onward  these  myriads — with  song  and  dance, 
With  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians'  prance, 
Web- footed  alligators,  crocodiles, 
Bearing  upon  theif  scaly  backs,  in  files, 
Plump  infant  laughers  mimicking  the  coil 
Of  seamen,  and  stout  galley-rowers'  toil : 
With  toying  oars  and  silken  sails  they  glide, 

Nor  care  for  wind  and  tide. 

"  Mounted  on  panthers'  furs  and  lions'  manes, 
From  rear  to  van  they  scour  about  the  plains ; 
A  three  days'  journey  in  a  moment  done ; 
And  always,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
About  the  wilds  they  hunt  with  spear  and  horn, 
On  spleenful  unicorn. 

"  I  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown  ! 
I  saw  parch'd  Abyssinia  rouse  and  sing 

To  the  silver  cymbals'  ring ! 
1  saw  the  whelming  vintage  hotly  pierce 

Old  Tartary  the  fierce  ! 
The  kings  of  Ind  their  jewel-sceptres  vail, 
And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled  hail ; 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  Ill 

Great  Brahma  from  his  mystic  heaven  groans, 

And  all  his  priesthood  moans, 
Before  young  Bacchus'  eye-wink  turning  pale. 
Into  these  regions  came  I,  following  him, 
Sick-hearted,  weary — so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear, 

Alone,  without  a  peer  : 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear. 

"  Young  stranger  ! 

I've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of  pleasure  throughout  every  clime  ; 

Alas  !  't  is  not  for  me  : 

Bewitch'd  I  sure  must  be, 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 

"  Come  then,  Sorrow, 

Sweetest  Sorrow  ! 
Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast : 

I  thought  to  leave  thee, 

And  deceive  thee, 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best. 

"  There  is  not  one, 

No,  no,  not  one 
But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid  ; 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

And  her  brother, 
Her  playmate,  and  her  wooer  in  the  shade." 

O  what  a  sigh  she  gave  in  finishing, 
And  look,  quite  dead  to  every  worldly  thing  ! 
Endymion  could  not  speak,  but  gazed  on  her : 


112  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 


And  listen'd  to  the  wind  that  now  did  stir 

About  the  crisped  oaks  full  drearily, 

Yet  with  as  sweet  a  softness  as  might  be 

Remember'd  from  its  velvet  summer  song. 

At  last  he  said  :  "  Poor  lady,  how  thus  long 

Have  I  been  able  to  endure  that  voice  ? 

Fair  Melody  !  kind  Syren !  I've  no  choice  ; 

I  must  be  thy  sad  servant  evermore  : 

I  cannot  choose  but  kneel  here  and  adore. 

Alas,  I  must  not  think — by  Phoebe,  no ! 

Let  me  not  think,  soft  Angel !  shall  it  be  so  ? 

Say,  beautifuUest,  shall  I  never  think  ? 

O  thou  couldst  foster  me  beyond  the  brink 

Of  recollection  !  make  my  watchful  care 

Close  up  its  bloodshot  eyes,  nor  see  despair ! 

Do  gently  murder  half  my  soul,  and  I 

Shall  feel  the  other  half  so  utterly  ! — 

I'm  giddy  at  that  cheek  so  fair  and  smooth  ; 

O  let  it  blush  so  ever  :  let  it  soothe 

My  madness !  let  it  mantle  rosy-warm 

With  the  tinge  of  love,  panting  in  safe  alarm. 

This  cannot  be  thy  hand,  and  yet  it  is ; 

And  this  is  sure  thine  other  softling — this 

Thine  own  fair  bosom,  and  I  am  so  near  ! 

Wilt  fall  asleep  ?     O  let  me  sip  that  tear  ! 

And  whisper  one  sweet  word  that  I  may  know 

This  is  this  world — sweet  dewy  blossom  !" — Wo  ! 

Wo  !  wo  TO  THAT  Endymion  !  Where  is  he  ? — 

Even  these  words  went  echoing  dismally 

Through  the  wide  forest — a  most  fearful  tone, 

Like  one  repenting  in  his  latest  moan  ; 

And  while  it  died  away  a  shade  pass'd  by, 

As  of  a  thunder-cloud.     When  arrows  fly 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  113 

Through  the  thick  branches,  poor  ring-doves  sleek  forth 

Their  timid  necks  and  tremble ;  so  these  both 

Leant  to  each  other  trembling,  and  sat  so 

Waiting  for  some  destruction — when  lo  ! 

Foot-feather'd  Mercury  appear'd  sublime 

Beyond  the  tall  tree  tops  ;  and  in  less  time 

Than  shoots  the  slanted  hail-storm,  down  he  dropp'd 

Towards  the  ground  ;  but  rested  not,  nor  stopp'd 

One  moment  from  his  home  :  only  the  sward 

He  with  his  wand  light  touch'd,  and  heavenward 

Swifter  than  sight  was  gone — even  before 

The  teeming  earth  a  sudden  witness  bore 

Of  his  swift  magic.     Diving  swans  appear 

Above  the  crystal  circlings  white  and  clear  ; 

And  catch  the  cheated  eye  in  wild  surprise 

How  they  can  dive  in  sight  and  unseen  rise — 

So  from  the  turf  outsprang  two  steeds  jet-black, 

Each  with  large  dark  blue  wings  upon  his  back. 

The  youth  of  Caria  placed  the  lovely  dame 

On  one,  and  felt  himself  in  spleen  to  tame 

The  other's  fierceness.     Through  the  air  they  flew, 

High  as  the  eagles.     Like  two  drops  of  dew 

Exhaled  to  Phoebus'  lips,  away  they  are  gone, 

Far  from  the  earth  away — unseen,  alone, 

Among  cool  clouds  and  winds,  but  that  the  free, 

The  buoyant  life  of  song  can  floating  be 

Above  their  heads,  and  follow  them  untired. 

Muse  of  my  native  land  !  am  I  inspired  ? 

This  is  the  giddy  air,  and  I  must  spread 

Wide  pinions  to  keep  here  ;  nor  do  I  dread 

Or  height,  or  depth,  or  width,  or  any  chance 

Precipitous  :  I  have  beneath  my  glance 

Those  towering  horses  and  their  mournful  freight. 


114  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 

Could  I  thus  sail,  and  see.  and  thus  await 
Fearless  for  power  of  thought,  without  thine  aid  ? 
There  is  a  sleepy  dusk,  an  odorous  shade 
From  some  approaching  wonder,  and  behold 
Those  winged  steeds,  with  snorting  nostrils  bold 
Snuff  at  its  faint  extreme,  and  seem  to  tire, 
Dying  to  embers  from  their  native  fire ! 

There  curl'd  a  purple  mist  around  them  ;  soon 
It  seem'd  as  when  around  the  pale  new  moon 
Sad  zephyr  droops  the  clouds  like  weeping  willow  : 
'T  was  Sleep  slow  journeying  with  head  on  pillow. 
For  the  first  time,  since  he  came  nigh  dead-born 
From  the  old  womb  of  night,  his  cave  forlorn 
Had  he  left  more  forlorn ;   for  the  first  time. 
He  felt  aloof  the  day  and  morning's  prime — 
Because  into  his  depth  Cimmerian 
Thei'e  came  a  dream,  showing  how  a  young  man, 
Ere  a  lean  bat  could  plump  i-ts  wintery  skin, 
Would  at  high  Jove's  empyreal  footstool  win 
An  immortality,  and  how  espouse 
Jove's  daughter,  and  be  reckon'd  of  his  house. 
Now  was  he  slumbering  towards  heaven's  gate, 
That  he  might  at  the  threshold  one  hour  wait  < 

To  hear  the  marriage  melodies,  and  then 
Sink  downward  to  his  dusky  cave  again, 
His  litter  of  smooth  semilucent  mist. 
Diversely  tinged  with  rose  and  amethyst, 
Puzzled  those  eyes  that  for  the  centre  sought ; 
And  scarcely  for  one  moment  could  be  caught 
His  sluggish  form  reposing  motionless. 
Those  two  on  winged  steeds,  with  all  the  stress 
Of  vision  search'd  for  him.  as  one  would  look 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  115 

Athwart  the  sallows  of  a  river  nook 

To  catch  a  glance  at  silver-throated  eels, — 

Or  from  old  Skiddaw's  top,  when  fog  conceals 

His  rugged  forehead  in  a  mantle  pale. 

With  an  eye-guess  towards  some  pleasant  vale, 

Descry  a  favorite  hamlet  faint  and  far. 

These  raven  horses,  though  they  foster'd  are 
Of  earth's  splenetic  fire,  dully  drop 
Their  full-vein'd  ears,  nostrils  blood  wide,  and  stop  ; 
Upon  the  spiritless  mist  have  they  outspread 
Their  ample  feathers,  are  in  slumber  dead, — 
And  on  those  pinions,  level  in  mid-air, 
Endymion  sleepeth  and  the  lady-fair. 
Slowly  they  sail,  slowly  as  icy  isle 
Upon  a  calm  sea  drifting  :  and  meanwhile 
The  mournful  wanderer  dreams.     Behold  I  he  walks 
On  heaven's  pavement,  brotherly  he  talks 
To  divine  powers  :_from  his  hand  full  fain 
Juno's  proud  birds  are  pecking  pearly  grain  : 
He  tries  the  nerve  of  Phoubus'  golden  bow, 
And  asketh  where  the  golden  apples  grow  : 
Upon  his  arm  he  braces  Pallas'  shield. 
And  strives  in  vain  to  unsettle  and  wield 
A  Jovian  thunderbolt  :  arch  Hebe  brings 
A  full-brimm'd  goblet,  dances  lightly,  sings 
And  tantalises  long  ;  at  last  he  drinks. 
And  lost  in  pleasure,  at  her  feet  he  sinks, 
Touching  with  dazzled  lips  her  star-light  hand. 
He  blows  a  bugle, — an  ethereal  band 
Are  visible  above  :  the  Seasons  four, — 
Green-kirtled  Spring,  flush  Summer,  golden  store 
In  Autumn's  sickle.  Winter  frosty  hoar, 


115  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 


Join  dance  with  shadowy  Hours  ;  while  still  the  blast, 
In  swells  unmitigated,  still  doth  last 
To  sway  their  floating  morris.     "  Whose  is  this  ? 
Whose  bugle  ?"  he  inquires  :  they  smile — "  O  Dis  ! 
Why  is  this  mortal  here  ?     Dost  thou  not  know- 
Its  mistress'  lips  ?     Not  thou  ? — 'T  is  Dian's  :  lo  ! 
She  rises  crescented  !"     He  looks,  'tis  she, 
His  very  goddess  :  good-bye  earth,  and  sea, 
And  air,  and  pains,  and  care,  and  suiTering ; 
Good-bye  to  all  but  love  !     Then  doth  he  spring 
Towards  her,  and  awakes — and,  strange,  o'erhead, 
Of  those  same  fragrant  exhalations  bred, 
Beheld  awake  his  very  d  ream  :  the  gods 
Stood  smiling  ;  merry  Hebe  laughs  and  nods  ; 
And  Phoebe  bends  towards  him  crescented. 
O  state  perplexing  !     On  the  pinion  bed, 
Too  well  awake,  he  feels  the  panting  side 
Of  his  delicious  lady.     He  who  died    - 
For  soaring  too  audacious  in  the  sun, 
Where  that  same  treacherous  wax  began  to  run, 
Felt  not  more  tongue-tied  than  Endymion". 
His  heart  leapt  up  as  to  its  rightful  throne, 
To  that  fair-shadow'd  passion  pulsed  its  way — 
Ah,  what  perplexity  !     Ah,  well  a-day  ! 
So  fond,  so  beauteous  was  his  bed- fellow, 
He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her :  then  he  grew 
Awhile  forgetful  of  all  beauty  save 
Young  Phcebe,  golden-hair 'd  ;  and  so  'gan  crave 
Forgiveness :  yet  he  turn'd  once  more  to  look 
At  the  sweet  sleeper, — all  his  soul  was  shook, — 
She  press'd  his  hand  in  slumber:  so  once  more 
He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her  and  adore. 
At  this  the  shadow  wept,  melting  away. 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  117 


The  Latmian  started  up :  "  Bright  goddess,  stay ! 
Search  my  most  hidden  breast !     By  truth's  own  tongue, 
I  have  no  dsedale  heart:  why  is  it  wrung 
To  desperation  ?     Is  there  naught  for  me, 
Upon  the  bourne  of  bliss,  but  misery  ?" 

These  words  awoke  the  stranger  of  dark  tresses  : 
Her  dawning  love-look  rapt  Endymion  blesses 
With  'havior  soft.     Sleep  yawn'd  from  underneath. 
"  Thou  swan  of  Ganges,  let  us  no  more  breathe 
This  murky  phantasm  !  thou  contented  seem'st 
Pillow'd  in  lovely  idleness,  nor  dream'st 
What  horrors  may  discomfort  thee  and  me. 
Ah,  shouldst  thou  die  from  my  heart-treachery  ! — 
Yet  did  she  merely  weep — her  gentle  soul 
Hath  no  revenge  in  it ;  as  it  is  whole 
In  tenderness,  would  I  were  whole  in  love  ! 
Can  I  prize  thee,  fair  maid,  all  price  above. 
Even  when  I  feel  as  true  as  innocence  ! 
I  do,  I  do. — What  is  this  soul  then  ?     Whence 
Came  it  ?     It  does  not  seem  my  own,  and  I 
Have  no  self-passion  or  identity. 
Some  fearful  end  must  be  ;  where,  where  is  it  ? 
By  Nemesis  !  I  see  my  spirit  flit 
Alone  about  the  dark — Forgive  me,  sweet ! 
Shall  we  away  ?"     He  roused  the  steeds :  they  beat 
Their  wings  chivalrous  into  the  clear  air, 
Leaving  old  Sleep  within  his  vapory  lair. 

^         The  good-night  blush  of  eve  was  waning  slow, 
And  Vesper,  risen  star,  began  to  throe 
In  the  dusk  heavens  silvery,  when  they 
Thus  sprang  direct  towards  the  Galaxy. 


118  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 

Nor  did  speed  hinder  converse  soft  and  strange — 

Eternal  oaths  and  vows  they  interchange, 

In  such  wise,  in  such  temper,  so  aloof 

Up  in  the  winds,  beneath  a  starry  roof, 

So  witless  of  their  doom,  that  verily 

'T  is  well  nigh  past  man's  search  their  hearts  to  see  ; 

Whether  they  wept,  or  laugh'd,  or  griev'd,  or  toy'd — 

Most  like  with  joy  gone  mad,  with  sorrow  cloy'd. 
'i 

Full  facing  their  swift  flight,  from  ebon  streak, 
The  moon  put  forth  a  little  diamond  peak. 
No  bigger  than  an  unobserved  star, 
Or  tiny  point  of  fairy  scimetar ; 
Bright  signal  that  she  only  stoop'd  to  tie 
Her  silver  sandals,  ere  deliciously 
She  bow'd  into  the  heavens  her  timid  head. 
Slowly  she  rose,  as  though  she  would  have  fled, 
While  to  his  lady  meek  the  Carian  turn'd. 
To  mark  if  her  dark  eyes  had  yet  discern'd 
This  beauty  in  its  birth — Despair  !  despair ! 
He  saw  her  body  fading  gaunt  and  spare 
In  the  cold  moonshine.     Straight  he  seized  her  wrist ; 
It  melted  from  his  grasp  ;  her  hand  he  kiss'd, 
And,  horror  !  kiss'd  his  own — he  was  alone. 
Her  steed  a  little  higher  soar'd,  and  then 
Dropt  hawk- wise  to  the  earth. 

There  lies  a  den, 
Beyond  the  seeming  confines  of  the  space 
Made  for  the  soul  to  wander  in  and  trace  ^^ 

Its  own  existence,  of  remotest  glooms.  ^» 

Dark  regions  are  around  it,  where  the  tombs 
Of  buried  griefs  the  spirit  sees,  but  scarce 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  119 

One  hour  doth  linger  weeping,  for  the  pierce 
Of  new-born  wo  it  feels  more  inly  smart : 
And  in  these  regions  many  a  venom'd  dart 
At  random  flies  :  they  are  the  proper  home 
Of  every  ill :  the  man  is  yet  to  come 
Who  hath  not  journey 'd  in  this  native  hell. 
But  few  have  ever  felt  how  calm  and  well 
Sleep  may  be  had  in  that  deep  den  of  all. 
There  anguish  does  not  sting,  nor  pleasure  pall ; 
Wo-hurricanes  beat  ever  at  the  gate, 
Yet  all  is  still  within  and  desolate. 
Beset  with  painful  gusts,  within  ye  hear 
No  sound  so  loud  as  when  on  curtain'd  bier 
The  death-watch  tick  is  stifled.     Enter  none 
Who  strive  therefore  :  on  the  sudden  it  is  won. 
.Tusfwhen  the  sufferer  begins  to  burn, 
Then  it  is  free  to  him  ;  and  from  an  urn, 
Still  fed  by  melting  ice,  he  takes  a  draught — 
Young  Semele  such  richness  never  quaff'd 
In  her  maternal  longing.     Happy  gloom  ! 
Dark  Paradise  !  where  pale  becomes  the  bloom 
Of  health  by  due ;  where  silence  dreariest 
Is  most  articulate  ;  where  hopes  infest ; 
Where  those  eyes  are  the  brightest  far  that  keep 
Their  lids  shut  longest  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 
O  happy  spirit-home !  O  wondrous  soul ! 
Pregnant  with  such  a  den  to  save  the  whole 
In  thine  own  depth.     Hail,  gentle  Carian  ! 
For,  never  since  thy  griefs  and  woes  began, 
Hast  thou  felt  so  content :  a  grieVous  feud 
Hath  let  thee  to  this  Cave  of  Quietude. 
Ay,  his  luU'd  soul  was  there,  although  upborne 
With  dangerous  speed  :  and  so  he  did  not  mourn 


120  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 


Because  he  knew  not  whither  he  was  going. 
So  happy  was  he,  not  the  aerial  blowing 
Of  trumpets  at  clear  parley  from  the  east 
Could  rouse  from  that  fine  relish,  that  high  feast. 
They  stung  the  feather'd  horse  ;  with  fierce  alarm 
He  flapped  towards  the  sound.     Alas  !  no  charm 
Could  lift  Endymion's  head,  or  he  had  view'd 
A  skyey  mask,  a  pinion'd  multitude, — 
And  silvery  was  its  passing  :  voices  sweet 
"Warbling  the  while  as  if  to  lull  and  greet 
The  wanderer  in  his  path.     Thus  warbled  they, 
While  past  the  vision  went  in  bright  array. 

"  Who,  who  from  Dian's  feast  would  be  away  ? 
For  all  the  golden  bowers  of  the  day 
Are  empty  left  ?  Who,  who  away  would  be 
From  Cynthia's  wedding  and  festivity  ? 
Not  Hesperus  :  lo  !  upon  his  silver  wings 
He  leans  away  for  highest  heaven  and  sings, 
Snapping  his  lucid  fingers  merrily  ! — 
Ah,  Zephyrus  !  art  here,  and  Flora  too  ? 
Ye  tender  bibbers  of  the  rain  and  dew. 
Young  playmates  of  the  rose  and  datibdil, 
Be  careful,  ere  ye  enter  in,  to  fill 

Your  baskets  high 
With  fennel  green,  and  balm,  and  golden  pines, 
Savory,  latter-mint,  and  columbines, 
Cool  parsley,  basil  sweet,  and  sunny  thyme  ; 
Yea,  every  flower  and  leaf  of  every  clime, 
All  gather'd  in  the  dewy  morning  ;  hie 

Away  !  fly,  fly  ! — 
Crystalline  brother  of  the  belt  of  heaven, 
Aquarius !  to  whom  king  Jove  has  given 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  121 


Two  liquid  pulse  streams  'stead  of  feather'd  wings, 
Two  fanlike  fountains, — thine  illuminings 

For  Dian  play  :  • 

Dissolve  the  frozen  purity  of  air  ; 
Let  thy  white  shoulders  silvery  and  bare 
Show  cold  through  watery  pinions  ;  make  more  brigTit 
The  Star-Queen's  crescent  on  her  marriage  night : 

Haste,  haste  away ! 
Castor  has  tamed  the  planet  Lion,  see  ! 
And  of  the  Bear  has  Pollux  mastery  : 
A  third  is  in  the  race  :  who  is  the  third, 
Speeding  away  swift  as  the  eagle  bird  ? 

The  ramping  Centaur ! 
The  Lion's  mane  's  on  end  :  the  Bear  how  fierce ! 
The  Centaur's  arrow  ready  seems  to  pierce 
Some  enemy  :  far  forth  his  bow  is  bent 
Into  the  blue  of  heaven.     He'll  be  shent, 

Pale  unrelentor, 
When  he  shall  hear  the  wedding  lutes  a  playing. — 
Andromeda  !  sweet  woman  !  why  delaying 
So  timidly  among  the  stars  :  come  hither  ! 
Join  this  bright  throng,  and  nimbly  follow  whither 

They  all  are  going. 
Danae's  Son,  before  Jove  newly  bow'd, 
Has  wept  for  thee,  calling  to  Jove  aloud. 
Thee,  gentle  lady,  did  lie  disenthral : 
Ye  shall  for  ever  live  and  love,  for  all 

Thy  tears  are  flowing. — 
By  Daphne's  fright,  behold  Apollo!" — 

More 
Endymion  heard  not :  down  his  steed  him  bore, 
Prone  to  the  green  head  of  a  misty  hill. 

PART  I.  7 


122  ENDYMION.  [book.  rv. 


His  first  touch  of  the  cartli  went  nigh  to  kill. 
"  Alas  !"  said  he,  "  were  I  but  always  borne 
Through  dangerous Avinds,  had  but  my  footsteps  worn 
A  path  in  hell,  for  eyer  would  I  bless 
Horrors  which  nourish  an  uneasiness 
For  my  own  sullen  conquering  ;  to  him 
AVliO  lives  beyond  earth's  boundary,  grief  is  dim, 
Sorrow  is  but  a  shadow  :  now  I  see 
The  grass  ;  1  feel  the  solid  ground — Ah,  me  ! 
]t  is  thy  voice — divinest !     Where  ? — who  ?  who 
Left  thee  so  quiet  on  this  bed  of  dew  ? 
Behold  upon  ihis  happy  earth  we  are ; 
Let  us  aye  love  each  other  ;  let  us  fare 
On  forest- fruits,  and  never,  never  go 
Among  the  abodes  of  mortals  here  below, 
Or  be  by  phantoms  duped.     O  destiny  ! 
Into  a  labyrinth  now  my  soul  would  fly, 
But  with  thy  beauty  \vill  I  deaden  it. 
Where  didst  thou  melt  to  ?     By  thee  will  I  sit 
For  ever  :  let  our  fate  stop  here — a  kid 
I  on  this  spot  will  offer :  Pan  will  bid 
Us  live  in  peace,  in  love  and  peace  among 
His  forest  wildernesses.     I  have  clung 
To  nothing,  loved  a  nothing,  nothing  seen 
Or  felt  but  a  great  dream  !     Oh,  [  have  been 
Presumptuous  against  love,  against  the  sky, 
Against  all  elements,  against"  the  tie 
Of  mortals  each  to  each,  against  the  blooms 
Of  flowers,  rush  of  rivers,  and  the  tombs 
Of  heroes  gone  !     Against  his  proper  glory 
Has  my  own  soul  conspired  :  so  my  story 
Will 'I  to  cliildren  utter,  and  repent. 
There  never  lived  a  mortal  man,  who  bent. 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMIO.X.  123 

His  appetite  beyond  his  natural  sphere, 

But  starved  and  died.     My  sweetest  Indian,  here, 

Here  will  I  kneel,  for  thou  redeemed  hast 

My  life  from  too  thin  breathing :  gone  and  past 

Are  cloudy  phantasms.     Caverns  lone,  farewell ! 

And  air  of  visions,  and  the  monstrous  swell 

Of  visionary  seas  !     No,  never  more 

Shall  airy  voices  cheat  me  to  the  shore 

Of  tangled  wonder,  breathless  and  aghast. 

Adieu,  my  daintiest  Dream  !  altliough  so  vast 

My  love  is  still  for  thee.     The  hour  may  come 

When  we  shall  meet  in  pure  elysium. 

On  earth  I  may  not  love  thee  ;  and  therefore 

Doves  will  I  offer  up,  and  sweetest  store 

All  through  the  teeming  year :  so  thou  wilt  shine 

On  me,  and  on  this  damsel  fair  of  mine. 

And  bless  our  simple  lives!     My  Indian  bliss ! 

My  river-lily  bud  !  one  human  kiss  ! 

One  sigh  of  real  breath — one  gentle  squeeze. 

Warm  as  a  dove's  nest  among  summer  trees, 

And  warm  with  dew  at  ooze  from  living  blood  ! 

Whither  didst  melt  ?  Ah,  what  of  that  ? — all  good 

We'll  talk  about — no  more  of  dreaming. — Now, 

Where  shall  our  dwelling  be  ?     Under  the  brow 

Of  some  steep  mossy  hill,  where  ivy  dun 

Would  hide  us  up,  although  spring  leaves  were  none  ; 

And  where  dark  yew-trees,  as  we  rustle  through. 

Will  drop  their  scarlet-berry  cups  of  dew  ! 

O  thou  wouldst  joy  to  live  in  such  a  place  ! 

Dusk  for  our  loves,  yet  light  enough  to  grace 

Those  gentle  limbs  on  mossy  bed  reclined  : 

For  by  one  step  the  blue  sky  shouldst  thou  find, 

And  by  another,  in  deep  dell  below, 


124  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 

See,  through  the  trees,  a  little  river  go 

All  in  its  mid-day  gold  and  glimmering. 

Honey  from  out  the  gnarled  hive  I'll  bring, 

And  apples,  wan  with  sweetness,  gather  thee, — 

Cresses  that  grow  where  no  man  may  them  see, 

And  sorrel  untorn  by  the  dew-claw'd  stag  : 

Pipes  will  I  fashion  of  the  syrinx  flag, 

That  thou  mayst  always  know  whither  I  roam, 

When  it  shall  please  thee  in  our  quiet  home 

To  listen  and  think  of  love.     Still  let  me  speak  ; 

Still  let  me  dive  into  the  joy  I  seek, — 

For  yet  the  past  doth  prison  me.     The  rill. 

Thou  haply  mayst  delight  in,  will  I  fill 

With  fairy  fishes  from  the  mountain  tarn, 

And  thou  shalt  feed  them  from  the  squirrel's  barn. 

Its  bottom  will  I  strew  with  amber  shells, 

And  pebbles  blue  from  deep  enchanted  wells. 

Its  sides  I'll  plant  with  dew-sweet  eglantine. 

And  honeysuckles  full  of  clear  bee-wine. 

I  will  entice  this  crystal  rill  to  trace 

Love's  silver  name  upon  the  meadow's  face. 

I'll  kneel  to  Vesta,  for  a  flame  of  fire  ; 

And  to  god  Phoebus,  fo;  a  golden  lyre  ; 

To  Empress  Dian,  for  a  hunting-spear  ; 

To  Vesper,  for  a  taper  silver-clear. 

That  I  may  see  thy  beauty  through  the  night ; 

To  Flora,  and  a  nightingale  shall  light 

Tame  on  thy  finger;  to  the  River-gods, 

And  they  shall  bring  thee  taper  fishing-rods 

Of  gold,  and  lines  of  naiads'  long  bright  tress. 

Heaven  shield  thee  for  thine  utter  loveliness  ! 

Thy  mossy  footstool  shall  the  altar  be 

'Fore  which  I'll  bend,  bending,  dear  love,  to  thee  : 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  125 

Those  lips  shall  be  my  Delphos,  and  shall  speak 
Laws  to  my  footsteps,  color  to  my  cheek, 
Trembling  or  steadfastness  to  this  same  voice, 
And  of  three  sweetest  pleasurings  the  choice  : 
And  that  affectionate  light,  those  diamond  things, 
Those  eyes,  those  passions,  those  supreme  pearl  strings, 
Shall  be  my  grief,  or  twinkle  me  to  pleasure. 
Say,  is  not  bliss  within  our  perfect  seizure  ? 

0  that  I  could  not  doubt!" 

The  mountaineer 
Thus  strove  by  fancies  vain  and  crude  to  clear 
His  brier'd  path  to  some  tranquillity. 
It  gave  bright  gladness  to  his  lady's  eye. 
And  yet  the  tears  she  wept  were  tears  of  sorrow  ; 
Answering  thus,  just  as  tlie  golden  morrow 
Beam'd  upward  from  the  valleys  of  the  east : 
"  0  that  the  flutter  of  his  heart  had  ceased, 
Or  the  sweet  name  of  love  had  pass'd  away  ! 
Young  feather'd  tyrant !  by  a  swift  decay 
Wilt  thou  devote  this  body  to  the  earth  : 
And  I  do  think  that  at  my  very  birth 

1  lisp'd  thy  blooming  titles  inwardly  ; 

For  at  the  first,  first  dawn  and  thought  of  thee, 
With  uplift  hands  I  bless'd  the  stars  of  heaven. 
Art  thou  not  cruel  ?  Ever  have  I  striven 
To  think  thee  kind,  but  ah,  it  will  not  do ! 
When  yet  a  child,  I  heard  that  kisses  drew 
Favor  from  thee,  and  so  I  kisses  gave 
To  the  void  air,  bidding  them  find  out  love  : 
But  when  I  came  to  feel  how  far  above 
All  fancy,  pride,  and  fickle  maidenhood, 
All  earthly  pleasure,  all  imagined  good. 
Was  the  warm  tremble  of  a  devout  kiss, — 


126  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 


Even  then  that  moment,  at  the  thought  of  this, 

Fainting  I  fell  into  a  bed  of  flowers, 

And  languish'd  there  three  days..    Ye  milder  powers, 

Am  I  not  cruelly  wrong'd  ?     Believe,  believe 

Me,  dear  Endymion,  were  I  to  weave 

With  my  own  fancies  garlands  of  sweet  life, 

Thou  shouldst  be  one  of  all.     Ah,  bitter  strife  ! 

I  may  not  be  thy  love  :  I  am  forbidden — 

Indeed  I  am — thwarted,  affrighted,  chidden 

By  things  I  trembled  at,  and  gorgon  wrath. 

Twice  hast  thou  ask'd  whither  1  went :  henceforth 

Ask  me  no  more  !  1  ma}''  not  utter  it. 

Nor  may  I  be  thy  love.     We  might  commit 

Ourselves  at  once  to  vengeance  ;  we  might  die ; 

We  might  embrace  and  die  :  voluptuous  thought ! 

Enlarge  not  to  my  hunger,  or  I  'm  caught 

In  trammels  of  perverse  deliciousness. 

No,  no,  that  shall  not  be  :  thee  will  I  bless, 

And  bid  a  long  adieu." 

The  Carian 
No  word  return'd  :  both  lovelorn,  silent,  wan, 
Into  the  valleys  green  together  went. 
Far  wandering,  they  were  perfoi-ce  content 
To  sit  beneath  a  fair  lone  beechen  tree ; 
Nor  at  each  other  gazed,  but  heavily 
Pored  on  its  hazel  cirque  of  shedded  leaves. 

Endymion  !  un])appy  !  it  nigh  grieves 
Me  to  behold  thee  thus  in  last  extreme : 
Enskied  ere  this,  but  truly  that  I  deem 
Truth  the  best  music  in  a  first-born  sonjr. 
Thy  lute-voiced  brother  will  I  sing  ere  long, 
And  thou  shalt  aid — hast  thou  not  aided  jne  ? 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  127 


Yes,  moonlight  Emperor !  felicity 
Has  been  thy  meed  for  many  thousand  years ; 
Yet  often  have  I,  on  the  brink  of  tears, 
]\Iourn'd  as  if  yet  thou  wert  a  forester ; — 
Forgetting  the  old  talc. 

He  did  not  stir 
His  eyes  from  the  dead  leaves,  or  one  small  pulse 
Of  joy  he  might  have  felt.  •   The  spirit  culls 
Un faded  amaranth,  when  wild  it  straj's 
Through  the  old  garden-ground  of  boyish  days, 
A  little  onwai'd  ran  the  very  stream 
By  which  he  took  iiis  first  soft  poppy  dream  ; 
And  on  the  very  bark  "gainst  which  he  leant 
A  crescent  he  had  carved,  and  round  it  spent 
His  skill  in  little  stars.     The  teeming  tree 
Had  swoU'n  and  grecn'd  the  pious  charactery, 
But  not  ta'en  out.     Why,  there  was  not  a  slope 
Up  which  he  had  not  fear'd  the  antelope  ; 
And  not  a  tree,  beneath  whose  rooty  shade 
He  had  not  with  his  tamed  leopards  play'd  ; 
Nor  could  an  arrow  light,  or  javelin, 
Fly  in  the  air  where  his  had  never  been — 
And  yet  he  knew  it  not. 

O  treachery ! 
Why  does  his  lady  smile,  pleasing  her  eye 
With  all  his  sorrowing  ?     He  sees  her  not 
But  who  so  stares  on  him  ?     His  sister  sure  ! 
Peona  of  tlie  woods  ! — Can  she  endure  ? — 
Impossible — how  dearly  they  embrace  ! 
His  lady  smiles;  delight  is  in  her  face; 
It  is  no  treachery. 


128  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 

"  Dear  brothei*  mine  ! 
Endymion,  weep  not  so  !     Why  shouldst  thou  pine  ! 
When  all  great  Latmos  so  exalt  will  be  ? 
Thank  the  great  gods,  and  look  not  bitterly ; 
And  speak  not  one  pale  word,  and  sigh  no  more. 
Sure  I  will  not  -believe  thou  hast  such  store 
Of  grief,  to  last  thee  to  my  kiss  again. 
Thou  surely  canst  not  bear  a  mind  in  pain, 
Come  hand  in  hand  with  one  so  beautiful. 
Be  happy  both  of  you  !  for  I  will  pull 
The  flowers  of  autumn  for  your  coronals. 
Pan's  holy  priest  for  young  Endymion  calls ; 
And  when  he  is  restor'd,  thou,  fairest  dame, 
Shalt  be  our  queen.     Now,  is  it  not  a  shame 
To  see  ye  thus, — not  very,  very  sad  ? 
Perhaps  you  are  too  happy  to  be  glad : 
O  feel  as  if  it  were  a  common  day  ; 
Free-voiced  as  one  who  never  was  away. 
No  tongue  shall  ask,  whence  come  ye  ?  but  ye  shall 
Be  gods  of  your  own  rest  imperial. 
Not  even  I,  for  one  whole  month,  will  pry 
Into  the  hours  that  have  pass'd  us  by, 
Since  in  my  arbor  I  did  sing  to  thee. 
O  Hermes  !  on  this  very  night  will  be 
A  hymning  up  to  Cynthia,  queen  of  light ; 
•    For  the  soothsayers  old  saw  yesternight 
Good  visions  in  the  air, — whence  will  befal. 
As  say  these  sages,  health  perpetual 
To  shepherds  and  their  flocks ;  and  furthermore, 
In  Dian's  face  they  read  the  gentle  lore : 
Therefore  for  her  these  vesper-carols  are. 
Our  friends  will  all  be  there  from  nigh  and  far.  ' 
Many  upon  thy  death  have  ditties  made ; 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  129 


And  many,  even  now,  their  foreheads  shade 
With  cypress,  on  a  day  of  sacrifice. 
New  singing  for  our  maids  shall  thou  devise, 
And  pluck  the  sorrow  from  our  huntsmen's  brows, 
Tell  me,  my  lady-queen,  how  to  espouse 
This  wayward  brother  to  his  rightful  joys ! 
His  eyes  are  on  thee  bent,  as  thou  didst  poise 
His  fate  most  goddess-like.     Help  me,  I  pray, 
To  lure — Endymion,  dear  brother,  say 
What  ails  thee  ?  "     He  could  bear  no  more,  and  so 
Bent  his  soul  fiercely  like  a  spiritual  bow, 
And  twang'd  it  inwardly,  and  calmly  said  : 
"  I  would  have  thee  my  only  friend,  sweet  maid  ! 
My  only  visitor !  not  ignorant  though. 
That  those  deceptions  which  for  pleasure  go 
'Mong  men,  are  pleasures  real  as  real  may  be : 
But  there  are  higher  ones  I  may  not  see. 
If  impiously  an  earthly  realm  I  take. 
Since  I  saw  thee,  I  have  been  wide  awake 
Night  after  night,  and  day  by  day,  until 
Of  the  empyrean  I  have  drunk  my  fill. 
Let  it  content  thee,  Sister,  seeing  me 
More  happy  than  betides  mortality. 
A  hermit  young,  I'll  live  in  mossy  cave. 
Where  thou  alone  shalt  come  to  mo,  and  lave 
Thy  spirit  in  the  wonders  I  shall  tell. 
Through  me  the  shepherd  realm  shall  prosper  well ; 
For  to  thy  tongue  will  I  all  health  confide. 
And  for  my  sake,  let  this  young  maid  abide 
With  thee  as  a  dear  sister.     Thou  alone, 
Peona,  mayst  return  to  me.     I  own 
This  may  sound  strangely  :  but  when,  dearest  girl, 
Thou  seest  it  for  my  happiness,  no  pearl 
7* 


130  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 


Will  trespass  down  those  cheeks.     Companion  fair ! 

Wilt  be  content  to  dwell  with  her,  to  share 

This  sister's  love  with  me  ?  "     Like  one  resign'd 

And  bent  by  circumstances,  and  thereby  blind 

In  self  commitment,  thus,  that  meek  unknown : 

"  Ay,  but  a  buzzing  by  my  ears  has  flown, 

Of  Jubilee  to  Dian  : — truth  I  heard  ! 

Well  then,  I  see  there  is  no  little  bird. 

Tender  soever,  but  is  Jove's  own  care. 

Long  have  I  sought  for  rest,  and  unaware, 

Behold  I  find  it !  so  exalted  too ! 

So  after  my  own  heart  I  I  knew,  I  knew 

There  was  a  place  untenanted  in  it ; 

In  that  same  void  white  Chastity  shall  sit, 

And  monitor  me  nightly  to  lone  slumber. 

With  sanest  lips  I  vow  me  to  the  number 

Of  Dian's  sisterhood  ;  and  kind  lady, 

With  thy  good  help,  this  very  night  shall  see 

My  future  days  to  her  fane  consecrate." 

As  feels  a  dreamer  what  doth  most  create 
His  own  particular  fright,  so  these  three  felt : 
Or  like  one  who,  in  after  ages,  knelt 
To  Lucifer  or  Baal,  when  he'd  pine 
After  a  little  sleep :  or  when  in  mine 
Far  under-ground,  a  sleeper  meets  his  friends 
Who  know  him  not.     Each  diligently  bends 
Towards  common  thoughts  and  things  for  very  fear ; 
Striving  their  ghastly  malady  to  cheer. 
By  thinking  it  a  thing  of  yes  and  no. 
That  housewives  talk  of.     But  the  spirit-blow 
Was  struck,  and  all  were  dreamers.     At  the  last 
Endymion  said :  "  Are  not  our  fates  all  cast  ? 


BOOB.  IV.]  ENDYMION.  131 


Why  stand  we  here  ?     Adieu,  ye  tender  pair ! 

Adieu  !  "     Whereat  those  maidens,  with  wild  stare, 

Walk'd  dizzily  away.     Pained  and  hot 

His  eyes  went  after  them,  until  they  got 

Near  to  a  cypress  grove,  whose  deadly  maw, 

In  one  swift  moment,  would  what  then  he  saw 

Engulf  for  ever.  •  "  Stay  !  "  he  cried,  "  ah,  stay  ! 

Turn,  damsels!  hist !  one  word  I  have  to  say  : 

Sweet  Indian,  I  would  see  thee  once  again. 

It  is  a  thing  I  dote  on :  so  I'd  fain, 

Peona,  ye  should  hand  in  hand  repair, 

Into  those  holy  groves  that  silent  are 

Behind  great  Dian's  temple.     I'll  be  yon, 

At  vesper's  earliest  twinkle — they  are  gone — 

But  once,  once,  once  again — "     At  this  he  prest 

His  hands  against  his  face,  and  then  did  rest 

His  head  upon  a  mossy  hillock  green, 

And  so  rcmain'd  as  he  a  corpse  had  been 

All  the  long  day ;  save  when  he  scantly  lifted 

His  eyes  abroad,  to  see  how  shadows  shifted 

With  the  slow  move  of  time, — sluggish  and  weary, 

Until  the  poplar  tops,  in  journey  dreary. 

Had  reach'd  the  river's  brim.     Then  up  he  rose, 

And,  slowly  as  that  very  river  flows, 

Walk'd  towards  the  temple-grove  with  this  lament  : 

"  Why  such  a  golden  eve  ?     The  breeze  is  sent 

Careful  and  soft,  that  not  a  leaf  may  fall 

Before  the  serene  father  of  them  all 

Bows  down  his  summer  head  below  the  west. 

Now  am  I  of  breath,  speech,  and  speed  possest, 

But  at  the  setting  I  must  bid  adieu 

To  her  for  the  last  time.     Night  will  strew 

On  the  damp  grass  myriads  of  lingcnng  leaves, 


132  ENDYMION.  [book  n-. 

And  with  them  shall  I  die  ;  nor  much  it  grieves 
To  die,  when  summer  dies  on  the  cold  sward. 
Why,  I  have  been  a  butterfly,  a  lord 
Of  flowers,  garlands,  love-knots,  silly  posies. 
Groves,  meadows,  melodies,  and  arbor-roses ; 
.  My  kingdom  's  at  its  death,  and  just  it  is 
That  I  should  die  with  it :  so  in  all  this 
We  miscal  grief,  bale,  sorrow,  heart-break,  wo, 
What  is  there  to  plain  of?     By  Titan's  foe 
I  am  but  rightly  served."     So  saying,  he 
Tripp'd  lightly  on,  in  sort  of  deathful  glee  ; 
Laughing  at  the  clear  stream  and  setting  sun, 
As  though  they  jests  had  been  :  nor  had  he  done 
His  laugh  at  nature's  holy  countenance, 
Until  that  grove  appear'd,  as  if  perchance. 
And  then  his  tongue  with  sober  seemlihed 
Gave  utterance  as  he  entei-'d  :  "  Ha !"  I  said, 
"  King  of  the  butterflies ;  but  by  this  'gloom, 
And  by  old  Rhadamanthus'  tongue  of  doom. 
This  dusk  religion,  pomp  of  solitude. 
And  the  Promethean  clay  by  thief  endued, 
By  old  Saturnus'  forelock,  by  his  head 
Shook  with  eternal  palsy,  1  did  wed 
Myself  to  things  of  light  from  infancy  ; 
And  thus  to  be  cast  out,  thus  lorn  to  die, 
Is  sure  enough  to  make  a  mortal  man 
Grow  impious."     So  he  inwardly  began 
On  things  for  which  no  wording  can  be  found  ; 
Deeper  and  deeper  sinking,  until  drown 'd 
Beyond  the  reach  of  music  :  for  the  choir 
Of  Cynthia  he  heard  not,  though  rough  brier 
Nor  muffling  thicket  interposed  to  dull 
The  vesper  hymn,  far  swollen,  soft  and  full, 


BOOK  IV.]  ENDYMION.  133 

Through  the  dark  pillars  of  those  sylvan  aisles. 

He  saw  not  the  two  maidens,  nor  their  smiles, 

Wan  as  primroses  gather'd  at  midnight 

By  chilly-finger'd  spring.     Unhappy  wight ! 

"  Endymion  !"  said  Peona,  '•  we  are  here  ! 

What  wouldst  thou  ere  we  all  are  laid  on  bier  ?" 

Then  he  embraced  her,  and  his  lady's  hand 

Press'd,  saying :  "  Sister,  I  would  have  command. 

If  it  were  heaven's  will,  on  our  sad  fate." 

At  which  that  dark-eyed  stranger  stood  elate 

And  said,  in  a  new.  voice,  but  sweet  as  love, 

To  Endymion's  amaze :  "  By  Cupid's  dove, 

And  so  thou  shall !  and  by  the  lily  truth 

Of  my  own  breast  thou  shall,  beloved  youth  !" 

And  as  she  spake,  into  her  face  there  came 

Light,  as  reflected  from  a  silver  flame  : 

Her  long  black  hair  swell'd  ampler,  in  display 

Full  golden ;  in  her  eyes  a  brighter  day 

Dawn'd  blue,  and  full  of  love.     Aye,  he  beheld 

Phcebe,  his  passion  !  joyous  she  upheld 

Her  lucid  bow,  continuing  thus  :  "  Drear,  drear 

Has  our  delaying  been  ;  but  foolish  fear 

Withheld  me  first ;  and  then  decrees  of  fate  ; 

And  then  't  was  fit  that  from  this  mortal  state 

Thou  shouldst,  my  love,  by  some  unlook'd-for  change 

Be  spiritualized.     Peona,  we  shall  range 

These  forests,  and  to  thee  they  safe  shall  be 

As  was  thy  cradle  ;  hither  shalt  thou  flee  • 

To  meet  us  many  a  time."     Next  Cynthia  bright 

Peona  kiss'd,  and  bless'd  with  fair  good  night : 

Her  brother  kiss'd  her  too,  and  knelt  adown 

Before  his  goddess,  in  a  blissful  swoon. 


134  ENDYMION.  [book  iv. 


She  gave  her  fair  hands  to  him,  and  behold, 
Before  three  swiftest  kisses  he  had  told, 
They  vanished  far  away  ! — Peona  went 
Home  through  the  gloomy  wood  in  wonderment. 


LAMIA 


PART   I 


Upon  a  time,  before  the  faery  broods 

Drove  Nymph  and  Satyr  from  the  prosperous  woods, 

Before  King  Oberon's  bright  diadem, 

Sceptre,  and  mantle,  clasp'd  with  dewy  gem, 

Frighted  away  the  Dryads  and  the  Fauns 

From  rushes  green,  and  brakes,  and  cowslipp'd  lawns, 

The  ever-smitten  Hermes  empty  left 

His  golden  throne,  bent  warm  on  amorous  theft : 

From  high  Olympus  had  he  stolen  light. 

On  this  side  of  Jove's  clouds,  to  escape  the  sight 

Of  his  great  summoner,  and  made  retreat 

Into  a  forest  on  the  shores  of  Crete. 

For  somewhere  in  that  sacred  island  dwelt 

A  nymph,  to  whom  all  hoofed  Satyrs  knelt ; 

At  whose  white  feet  the  languid  Tritons  pour'd 

Pearls,  while  on  land  they  wither 'd  and  adored. 

Fast  by  the  springs  where  she  to  bathe  was  wontj 

And  in  those  meads  where  sometimes  she  micrht  haunt, 

Were  strewn  rich  gifts,  unknown  to  any  Muse, 

Though  Fancy's  casket  were  unlock'd  to  choose. 

Ah,  what  a  world  of  love  was  at  her  feet ! 

So  Hermes  thought,  and  a  celestial  heat 

Burn'd  from  his  winged  heels  to  either  ear. 


133  LAMIA.  [part  i. 

That  from  a  whiteness,  as  the  lily  clear, 
Blush'd  into  roses  'mid  his  golden  hair, 
Fallen  in  jealous  curls  about  his  shoulders  bare. 
From  vale  to  vale,  from  wood  to  wood,  he  flew, 
Breathing  upon  the  flowers  his  passion  new. 
And  wound  with  many  a  river  to  its  head, 
•   To  find  where  this  sweet  nymph  prepared  her  secret  bed  : 
In  vain  ;  the  sweet  nymph  might  nowhere  be  found, 
And  so  he  rested,  on  the  lonely  ground. 
Pensive,  and  full  of  painful  jealousies 
Of  the  Wood-Gods,  and  even  the  very  trees. 
There  as  he  stood,  he  heard  a  mournful  voice. 
Such  as  once  heard,  in  gentle  heart,  destroys 
All  pain  but  pity  :  thus  the  lone  voice  spake  : 
"  When  from  this  wreathed  tomb  shall  I  awake ! 
When  move  in  a  sweet  body  fit  for  life, 
And  love,  and  pleasure,  and  the  ruddy  strife 
Of  hearts  and  lips  !     Ah,  miserable  me  !  " 
The  God,  dove-footed,  glided  silently 
Round  bush  and  tree,  soft-brushing,  in  his  speed, 
The  taller  grasses  and  full-flowering  weed, 
Until  he  found  a  palpitating  snake, 
Bright,  and  cirque-couchant  in  a  dusky  brake. 

She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue, 
Vcrmillion-spotted,  golden,  green,  and  blue; 
Striped  like  a  zebra,  freckled  like  a  pard. 
Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson  barr'd  ; 
And  full  of  silver  moons,  that,  as  she  breathed, 
Dissolved,  or  brigliter  shone,  or  interwreathed 
Their  lustres  with  the  gloomier  tapestries — 
So  rainbow-sided,  touched  with  miseries. 
She  secm'd  at  once,  some  penanced  lady  elf, 


PART  I.]  LAMIA.  139 

Some  demon's  mistress,  or  the  demon's  self. 
Upon  her  crest  she  wore  a  wannish  fire 
Sprinkled  with  stars,  like  Ariadne's  tiar : 
Her  head  was  serpent,  but  ah,  bitter  sweet ! 
Slie  had  a  woman's  mouth  with  all  its  pearls  complete  : 
And  for  her  eyes — what  could  such  eyes  do  there 
But  weep,  and  weep,  that  they  were  born  so  fair  ? 
'       As  Proserpine  still  weeps  for  her  Sicilian  air. 
Her  throat  was  serpent,  but  the  words  she  spake 
Camc.'as  through  bubbling  honey,  for  Love's  sake. 
And  thus  ;   while  Hermes  on  his  pinions  lay, 
Like  a  stoop'd  falcon  ere  he  takes  his  prey : 

'•  Fair  Hermes  !  crown'd  with  feathers,  fluttering  light, 
I  had  a  splendid  dream  of  thee  last  night : 
I  saw  thee  sitting,  on  a  throne  of  gold. 
Among  the  Gods,  upon  Olympus  old, 
The  only  sad  one ;  for  thou  didst  not  hear. 
The  soft,  lute-finger'd  Muses  chanting  clear, 
Nor  even  Apollo  when  he  sang  alone. 
Deaf  to  his  throbbing  throat's  long,  long  melodious  moan. 
I  dreamt  I  saw  thee,  robed  in  purple  flakes. 
Break  amorous  through  the  clouds,  as  morning  breaks, 
And,  swiftly  as  a  bright  Phoebean  dart. 
Strike  for  the  Cretan  isle  ;  and  here  thou  art ! 
Too  gentle  Hermes,  hast  thou  found  the  maid  ?" 
Whereat  the  star  of  Lethe  not  delay'd 
His  rosy  eloquence,  and  thus  inquired  : 
"  Thou  smooth-lipp'd  serpent,  surely  high  inspired  ! 
Thou  beauteous  wreath,  with  melancholy  eyes. 
Possess  whatever  bliss  thou  canst  devise. 
Telling  me  only  where  my  nymph  is  fled, — 
Where  she  doth  breathe  !"     "  Bright  planet,  thou  hast  said," 


140  LAMIA.  [part  i. 

Return'd  the  snake,  "  but  seal  with  oaths,  fair  God  !" 

"  I  swear,"  said  Hermes,  "  by  my  serpent  rod, 

And  by  thine  eyes,  and  by  thy  starry  crown  !" 

Light  flew  his  earnest  words,  among  the  blossoms  blown. 

Then  thus  again  the  brilliance  feminine  : 

"  Too  frail  of  heart !  for  this  lost  nymph  of  thine, 

Free  as  the  air,  invisibly,  she  strays 

About  these  thornless  wilds  ;   her  pleasant  days 

She  tastes  unseen  ;  unseen  her  nimble  feet 

Leave  traces  in  the  grass  and  flowers  sweet : 

From  weary  tendrils,  and  bow'd  branches  green, 

She  plucks  the  fruit  unseen,  she  bathes  unseen  : 

And  by  my  power  is  her  beauty  veil'd 

To  keep  it  unaffronted,  unassail'd 

By  the  love-glances  of  unlovely  eyes, 

Of  Satyrs,  Fauns,  and  blear'd  Silenus'  sighs. 

Pale  grew  her  immortality,  for  wo 

Of  all  these  lovers,  and  she  grieved  so 

I  took  compassion  on  her,  bade  her  steep 

Her  hair  in  weird  syrops,  that  would  keep 

Her  loveliness  invisible,  yet  free 

To  wander  as  she  loves,  in  liberty. 

Thou  shalt  behold  her,  Hermes,  thou  alone. 

If  thou  wilt,  as  thou  svvearest,  grant  my  boon  !" 

Then,  once  again,  the  charmed  God  began 

An  oath,  and  through  the  serpent's  ears  it  ran 

Warm,  tremulous,  devout,  psalterian. 

Ravish'd  she  lifted  her  Circean  head, 

Blush'd  a  live  damask,  and  swift-lisping  said, 

"  I  was  a  woman,  let  me  have  once  more 

A  woman's  shape,  and  charming  as  before. 

I  love  a  youth  of  Corinth — O  the  bliss  ! 

Give  me  my  woman's  form,  and  place  me  where  he  is. 


PART  I.]  LAMIA.  141 

Stoop,  Hermes,  let  me  breathe  upon  thy  brow. 

And  thou  shalt  see  thy  sweet  nymph  even  now  !" 

The  God  on  half-shut  feathers  sank  serene, 

She  breatlied  upon  his  eyes,  and  swift  was  seen 

Of  both  the  guarded  nymph  near-smiling  on  the  green. 

It  was  no  dream ;  or  say  a  dream  it  was, 

Real  are  the  dreams  of  Gods,  and  smoothly  pass 

Their  pleasures  in  a  long  immortal  dream. 

One  warm,  flush'd  moment,  hovering,  it  might  seem 

Dash'd  by  the  wood-nymph's  beauty,  so  he  burn'd ; 

Then,  lighting  on  the  printless  verdure,  turn'd 

To  the  swoon'd  serpent,  and  with  languid  arm, 

Delicate,  put  to  proof  the  lithe  Caducean  charm. 

So  done,  upon  the  nymph  his  eyes  he  bent 

Full  of  adoring  tears  and  blandishment. 

And  towards  her  stept :  she,  like  a  moon  in  wane, 

Faded  before  him,  cower'd,  nor  could  restrain 

Her  fearful  sobs,  self- folding  like  a  flower 

That  faints  into  itself  at  evening  hour: 

But  the  God  fostering  her  chilled  hand, 

She  felt  the  warmth,  her  eyelids  open'd  bland, 

And,  like  new  flowers  at  morning  song  of  bees, 

Bloom 'd,  and  gave  up  her  honey  to  the  lees. 

Into  the  green-reces.sed  woods  they  flew  ; 

Nor  grew  they  pale,  as  mortal  lovers  do. 

Loft  to  herself,  the  serpent  now  began 
To  change ;  her  elfin  blood  in  madness  ran, 
Her  mouth  foam'd,  and  the  grass,  therewith  besprent, 
Wither'd  at  dew  so  sweet  and  virulent ; 
Her  eyes  in  torture  fix'd,  and  anguish  drear. 
Hot,  glazed,  and  wide,  with  lid-lashes  all  sear, 
Flash 'd  phosphor  and  sharp  sparks,  without  one  cooling  tear. 


142  LAMIA.  [part  i. 

The  colors  all  inflamed  throughout  her  train, 

She  writhed  about,  convulsed  with  scarlet  pain  : 

A  deep  volcanian  yellow  took  the  place 

Of  all  her  milder-mooned  body's  grace; 

And,  as  the  lava  ravishes  the  mead, 

Spoilt  all  her  silver  mail,  and  golden  brede  : 

Made  gloom  of  all  her  frecklings,  streaks  and  bars, 

Eclipsed  her  crescents,  and  lick'd  up  her  stars  : 

So  that,  in  moments  few,  she  was  undrest 

Of  all  her  sapphires,  greens,  and  amethyst, 

And  rubious-argent :  of  all  these  bereft. 

Nothing  but  pain  and  ugliness  were  left. 

Still  shone  her  crown  ;  that  vanish'd,  also  she 

Melted  and  disappear'd  as  suddenly  ; 

And  in  the  air,  her  new  voice  luting  soft, 

Cried,  "  Lycius  !  gentle  Lycius  !" — borne  aloft 

With  the  bright  mists  about  the  mountains  hoar 

These  words  dissolved  :  Crete's  forests  heard  no  more. 

Whither  fled  Lamia,  now  a  lady  bright, 
A  fuU-boi'n  beauty  new  and  exquisite  ? 
She  fled  into  that  valley  they  pass  o'er 
Who  go  to  Corinth  from  Cenchreas'  shore  ; 
And  rested  at  the  foot  of  those  wild  hills. 
The  rugged  founts  of  the  Pereean  rills, 
And  of  that  other  ridge  whose  barren  back 
Stretches,  with  all  its  mist  and  cloudy  rack, 
South-westward  to  Cleone.     There  she  stood 
About  a  young  bird's  flutter  from  a  wood. 
Fair,  on  a  sloping  green  of  mossy  tread, 
By  a  clear  pool,  wherein  she  passioned 
To  see  herself  escaped  from  so  sore  ills, 
While  her  robes  flaunted  with  the  daffodils. 


PART  I.]  LAMIA.  143 

All,  happy  Lycius  ! — for  she  was  a  maid 
More  beautiful  than  ever  twisted  braid, 
Or  sigh'd,  or  blush'd,  or  on  spring-flower'd  lea 
Spread  a  green^kirtle  to  the  minstrelsy  : 
A  virgin  purest  lipp'd,  yet  in  the  lore 
Of  love  deep  learned  to  the  red  heart's  core : 
Not  one  hour  old,  yet  of  sciential  brain 
To  unperplcx  bliss  from  its  neighbor  pain ; 
Define  their  pettish  limits,  and  estrange 
Their  points  of  contact,  and  swift  counterchange  ; 
Intrigue  with  the  specious  chaos,  and  dispart 
Its  most  ambiguous  atoms  with  sure  art ; 
As  though  in  Cupid's  college  she  had  spent 
Sweet  days  a  lovely  graduate,  still  unshent, 
And  kept  his  rosy  terms  in  idle  languishment. 

Why  this  fair  creature  chose  so  fairily 
By  the  wayside  to  linger,  we  shall  see ; 
But  first 't  is  fit  to  tell  how  she  could  muse 
And  dream,  when  in  the  serpent  prison-house. 
Of  all  she  list,  strange  or  magnificent : 
How,  ever,  where  she  will'd,  her  spirit  went ; 
Whether  to  faint  Elysium,  or  where 
Down  through  tress-lifting  waves  the  Nereids  fair 
Wind  into  Thetis'  bower  by  many  a  pearly  stair  ; 
Or  where  God  Bacchus  drains  his  cups  divine, 
Stretch'd  out,  at  ease,  beneath  a  glutinous  pine  ; 
Or  where  in  Pluto's  gardens  palatine 
Mulciber's  columns  gleam  in  far  piazzian  line. 
And  sometimes  into  cities  she  would  send 
Her  dream,  with  feast  and  rioting  to  blend ; 
And  once,  while  among  mortals  dreaming  thus. 


144  LAMIA.  [part  i 

She  saw  the  young  Corinthian  Lycius 
Charioting  foremost  in  the  envious  race, 
Like  a  young  Jove  with  calm  uneager  face, 
And  fell  into  a  swooning  love  of  him. 
Now  on  the  moth-time  of  that  evening  dim 
He  would  return  that  way,  as  well  she  knew, 
■  To  Corinth  from  the  shore  :  for  freslily  blew 
The  eastern  soft  wind,  and  his  galley  now 
Grated  the  quay-stones  with  her  brazen  prow 
In  port  Cenchreas,  from  Egina  isle 
Fresh  anchor'd  ;   whither  he  had  been  awhile 
To  sacrifice  to  Jove,  whose  temple  there 
Waits  with  liigh  marble  doors  for  blood  and  incense  rare. 
Jove  heard  his  vows,  and  better'd  his  desire  ; 
For  by  some  freak ful  chance  he  made  retire 
From  his  companions,  and  set  forth  to  walk. 
Perhaps  grown  wearied  of  their  Corinth  talk  : 
Over  the  solitary  hills  he  fared. 
Thoughtless,  at  first,  but  ere  eve's  star  appear'd 
His  phantasy  was  lost,  where  i-eason  fades, 
In  the  calm'd  twilight  of  Platonic  shades. 
Lamia  beheld  him  coming,  near,  more  near — 
Close  to  her  passing,  in  indifference  drear. 
His  silent  sandals  swept  the  mossy  green  ; 
So  neighbor'd  to  him,  and  yet  so  unseen 
She  stood  :  he  pass'd,  shut  up  in  mysteries. 
His  mind  wrapp'd  like  his  mantle,  while  her  eyes 
FoUow'd  his  steps,  and  her  neck  regal  white 
Turn'd — syllabling  thus,  "  Ah,  Lycius  bright ! 
And  will  you  leave  me  on  the  hills  alone  ? 
Lycius,  look  back  !  and  be  some  pity  shown." 
He  did  ;  not  with  cold  wonder  fearingly, 
But  Orpheus-like  at  an  Eurydice  ; 


PART  I.]  LAMIA.  115 

For  so  delicious  were  the  words  she  sung, 

It  seem'd  he  had  lov'd  them  a  whole  summer  long  : 

And  soon  his  eyes  had  drunk  her  beauty  up, 

Leaving  no  drop  in  the  bewildering  cup, 

And  still  the  cup  was  full, — while  he,  afraid 

Lest  she  should  vanish  ere  his  lip  liad  paid 

Due  adoration,  thus  began  to  adore ; 

Her  soft  look  growing  coy,  she  saw  his  chain  so  sure  : 

"  Leave  thee  alone  !     Look  back  !     Ah,  Goddess,  see 

Whether  my  eyes  can  ever  turn  from  thee  ! 

For  pity  do  not  this  sad  heart  belie — 

Even  as  thou  vanishest  so  I  shall  die. 

Stay  !  though  a  Naiad  of  the  rivers,  stay  ! 

To  thy  far  wishes  will  thy  streams  obey  : 

Stay !  though  the  greenest  woods  be  thy  domain, 

Alone  they  can  drink  up  the  morning  rain  ; 

Though  a  descended  Pleiad,  will  not  one 

Of  thine  harmonious  sisters  keep  in  tune 

Thy  spheres,  and  as  thy  silver  proxy  shine  ? 

So  sweetly  to  these  ravish'd  ears  of  mine 

Came  thy  sweet  greeting,  that  if  thou  shouldst  fade 

Thy  memory  will  waste  me  to  a  shade  : — 

For  pity  do  not  melt !  " — "  If  I  should  stay," 

Said  Lamia,  "  here,  upon  this  floor  of  clay, 

And  pain  my  steps  upon  these  flowers  too  rough, 

What  canst  thou  say  or  do  of  charm  enough 

To  dull  the  nice  remembrance  of  my  home  ? 

Thou  canst  not  ask  me  with  thee  here  to  roam 

Over  these  hills  and  vales,  where  no  joy  is, — 

Empty  of  immortality  and  bliss  ! 

Thou  art  a  scholar,  Lycius,  and  must  know    • 

That  finer  spirits  cannot  breathe  below 

In  human  climes,  and  live  :  Alas  !  poor  youth, 

PART  I.  8 


146  LAMIA.  [part  i. 

What  taste. of  purer  air  hast  tliou  to  soothe 

My  essence  ?  What  serener  palaces, 

Where  I  may  all  my  many  senses  please, 

And  by  mysterious  sleights  a  hundred  thirsts  appease  ; 

It  cannot  be — Adieu  !  "     So  said,  she  rose 

Tiptoe  with  white  arms  spread.     He,  sick  to  lose 

The  amorous  promise  of  her  lone  complain, 

Swoon'd  murmuring  of  love,  and  pale  with  pain. 

The  cruel  lady,  without  any  show 

Of  sorrow  for  her  tender  favorite's  wo, 

But  rather,  if  her  eyes  could  brighter  be, 

With  brighter  eyes  and  slow  amenity. 

Put  her  new  lips  to  his,  and  gave  afresh 

The  life  she  had  so  tangled  in  her  mesh  ; 

And  as  he  from  one  trance  was  wakening 

Into  another,  she  began  to  sing, 

Happy  in  beauty,  life,  and  love,  and  everything, 

A  song  of  love,  too  sweet  for  eartlily  lyres, 

While,  like  held  breath,  the  stars  drew  in  their  panting  fires. 

And  then  she  whisper'd  in  such  trembling  tone. 

As  those  who,  safe  together  met  alone 

For  the  first  time  through  many  anguish'd  days, 

Use  other  speech  than  looks  ;  bidding  him  raise 

His  drooping  head,  and  clear  his  soul  of  doubt, 

For  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  without 

Any  more  subtle  fluid  in  her  veins. 

Than  throbbing  blood,  and  that  the  self-same  pains   ' 

Inhabited  her  frail-strung  heart  as  his. 

And  next  she  wonder'd  how  his  eyes  could  miss 

Her  face  so  long  in  Corinth,  where,  she  said, 

She  dwelt  but  half  retired,  and  there  had  led 

Days  happy  as  the  gold  coin  could  invent 

Without  the  aid  of  love  ;   yet  in  content 


PART  i]  LAMIA.  147 

Till  she  saw  him,  as  once  she  pass'd  him  by, 

Where  'gainst  a  column  he  leant  thoughtfully 

At  Venus'  temple  porch,  'mid  baskets  heap'd 

Of  amorous  herbs  and  flowers,  newly  reap'd 

Late  on  that  eve,  as  't  was  the  night  before 

The  Adonian  feast ;  whereof  she  saw  no  more, 

But  wept  alone  those  days,  for  why  should  she  adore  ? 

Lycius  from  death  awoke  into  amaze, 

To  see  her  still,  and  singing  so  sweet  lays  ; 

Then  from  amaze  into  delight  he  fell 

To  hear  her  whisper  woman's  lore  so  well : 

And  every  word  she  spake  enticed  him  on 

To  unperplexed  delight  and  pleasure  known. 

Let  the  mad  poets  say  whate'er  they  please 

Of  the  sweets  of  Fairies,  Peris,  Goddesses, 

There  is  not  such  a  treat  among  them  all. 

Haunters  of  cavern,  lake,  and  waterfall, 

As  a  real  woman,  lineal  indeed 

From  Pyrrha's  pebbles  or  old  Adam's  seed. 

Thus  gentle  Lamia  judged,  and  judged  aright, 

That  Lycius  could  not  love  in  half  a  fright, 

So  threw  the  goddess  off,  and  won  his  heart 

More  pleasantly  by  playing  woman's  part. 

With  no  more  awe  than  what  her  beauty  gave, 

That,  while  it  smote,  still  guaranteed  to  save. 

Lycius  to  all  made  eloquent  reply, 

Marrying  to  every  word  a  twin-born  sigh  ;' 

And  last,  pointing  to  Corinth,  ask'd  her  sweet, 

If  't  was  too  far  that  nigh^  for  her  soft  feet. 

The  way  was  short,  for  Lamia's  eagerness 

Made,  by  a  spell,  the  triple  league  decrease 

To  a  few  paces ;  not  at  all  surmised 

By  blinded  Lycius,  so  in  her  comprised 


LAMIA.  [part  I. 

They  passed  the  city  gates,  he  knew  not  how, 
So  noiseless,  and  he  never  thought  to  know. 

As  men  talk  in  a  dream,  so  Corinth  all, 
Throughout  her  palaces  imperial, 
And  all  her  populous  streets  and  temples  lewd, 
Mutter'd,  like  tempest  in  the  distance  brew'd, 
To  the  wide-spreaded  night  above  her  towers. 
Men,  women,  rich  and  poor,  in  the  cool  hours, 
Shuffled  their  sandals  o'er  the  pavement  white, 
Companion'd  or  alone ;  while  many  a  light 
Flared,  here  and  there,  from  wealthy  festivals. 
And  threw  their  moving  shadows  on  the  walls, 
Or  found  them  cluster'd  in  the  corniced  shade 
Of  some  arch'd  temple  door,  or  dusky  colonnade. 

Muffling  his  face,  of  greeting  friends  in  fear, 
Her  fingers  he  press'd  hard,  as  one  came  near 
With  curl'd  grey  beard,  sharp  eyes,  and  smooth  bald  crown, 
Slow-stepp'd,  and  robed  in  philosophic  gown  : 
Lycius  shrank  closer,  as  they  met  and  past. 
Into  his  mantle,  adding  wings  to  haste. 
While  hurried  Lamia  trembled  ;  "  Ah,"  said  he, 
"  Why  do  you  shudder,  love,  so  ruefully  ? 
Why  does  your  tender  palm  dissolve  in  dew  ?" — 
"  I'm  wearied,"  said  fair  Lamia :  "  tell  me  who 
Is  that  old  man  ?  I  cannot  bring  to  mind 
His  features  : — Lycius !  wherefore  did  you  blind 
Yourself  from  his  quick  eyes  !  "     Lycius  replied, 
"  'T  is  Apollonius  sage,  my  trusty  guide 
And  good  instructor  ;   but  to-night  he  seems 
The  ghost  of  folly  haunting  my  sweet  dreams." 


PART  I.]  LAMIA.  149 

While  yet  he  spake  they  had  arrived  before 
A  pillar'd  porch,  with  lofty  portal  door, 
Where  hung  a  silver  lamp  whose  phosphor  glow 
Reflected  in  the  slabbed  steps  below, 
Mild  as  a  star  in  water ;  for  so  new 
And  so  unsullied  was  the  marble  hue. 
So  through  the  crystal  polish,  liquid  fine, 
Ran  the  dark  veins,  that  none  but  feet  divine 
Could  e'er  have  touch'd  there.     Sounds  ^Eolian 
■  Breathed  from  the  hinges,  as  the  ample  span 
Of  the  wide  doors  disclosed  a  place  unknown 
Some  time  to  any,  but  those  two  alone. 
And  a  few  Persian  mutes,  who  that  same  year 
Were  seen  about  the  markets  :  none  knew  where 
They  could  inhabit ;  the  most  curious  , 
Were  foil'd,  who  watch'd  to  trace  them  to  their  house  : 
And  but  the  flitter-winged  verse  must  tell, 
For  truth's  sake  what  wo  afterwards  befel, 
'T  would  humor  many  a  heart  to  leave  them  thus. 
Shut  from  the  busy  world  of  more  incredulous. 


150  LAMIA.  [part  n. 


PART    II. 


Love  in  a  hut,  with  water  and  a  crust, 

Is — Love,  forgive  us ! — cinders,  ashes,  dust ; 

Love  in  a  palace  is  perhaps  at  last 

More  grievous  torment  than  a  hermit's  fast : — 

That  is  a  doubtful  tale  from  faery  land, 

Hard  for  the  non-elect  to  understand. 

Had  Lycius  lived  to  hand  his  story  down, 

He  might  have  given  the  moral  a  fresh  frown, 

Or  clench'd  it  quite  :  but  too  short  was  their  bliss 

To  breed  distrust  and  hate,  that  make  the  soft  voice  hiss. 

Besides,  there,  nightly,  with  terrific  glare, 

Love,  jealous  grown  of  so  complete  a  pair, 

Hover'd  and  buzz'd  his  wings,  with  fearful  roar. 

Above  the  lintel  of  their  chamber  door, 

And  down  the  passage  cast  a  glow  upon  the  floor. 

For  all  this  came  a  ruin :  side  by  side 
They  were  enthroned,  in  the  even  tide, 
Upon  a  couch,  near  to.  a  curtaining 
Whose  airy  texture,  from  a  golden  string. 
Floated  into  the  room,  and  let  appear 
Unveil'd  the  summer  heaven,  blue  and  clear. 
Betwixt  two  marble  shafts : — there  they  reposed. 
Where  use  had  made  it  sweet,  with  eyelids  closed, 


PART  n.]  LAMIA.  151 

Saving  a  tithe  which  love  still  open  kept, 

That  they  might  see  each  other  while  they  almost  slept ; 

When  from  the  slope  side  of  a  suburb  hill, 

Deafening  the  swallow's  twitter,  came  a  thrill 

Of  trumpets — Lycius  started — the  sounds  fled, 

But  left  a  thought,  a  buzzing  in  his  head. 

For  the  first  time,  since  first  he  harbor'd  in 

That  purple-lined  palace  of  sweet  sin, 

His  spirit  pass'd  beyond  its  golden  bourn 

Into  the  noisy  world  almost  forsworn. 

The  lady,  ever  watchful,  penetrant, 

Saw  this  with  pain,  so  arguing  a  want 

Of  something  more,  more  than  her  empery 

Of  joys  ;  and  she  began  to  moan  and  sigh 

Because  he  mused  beyond  her,  knowing  well 

That  but  a  moment's  thought  is  passion's  passing  bell. 

"  Why  do  you  sigh,  fair  creature  ?"  whisper'd  he  : 

"  Why,  do  you  think  ?"  return'd  she  tenderly  : 

"  You  have  deserted  me  ;  where  am  T  now  ? 

Not  in  your  heart  while  care  weighs  on  your  brow  : 

No,  no,  you  have  dismiss'd  me  ;  and  I  go 

From  your  breast  houseless :  ay,  it  must  be  so." 

He  answer'd,  bending  to  her  open  eyes, 

Where  he  was  mirror'd  small  in  paradise, — 

"  My  silver  planet,  both  of  eve  and  morn  ! 

Why  will  you  plead  yourself  so  sad  forlorn, 

While  I  am  striving  how  to  fill  my  heart 

With  deeper  crimson,  and  a  double  smart  ? 

How  to  entangle,  trammel  up  and  snare 

Your  soul  in  mine,  and  labyrinth  you  there, 

Like  the  hid  scent  in  an  unbudded  rose  ? 

Ay,  a  sweet  kiss — you  see  your  mighty  woes. 

My  thoughts !  shall  I  unveil  them  ?  Listen  then  ! 


152  LAMIA.  [part  ii. 

"What  mortal  hath  a  prize,  that  other  men 

May  be  confounded  and  abash'd  withal, 

But  lets  it  sometimes  pace  abroad  majestical, 

And  triumph,  as  in  thee  I  should  rejoice 

Amid  the  hoarse  alarm  of  Corinth's  voice. 

Let  my  foes  choke,  and  my  friends  shout  afar, 

While  through  the  thronged  streets  your  bridal  car 

Wheels  round  its  dazzling  spokes." — The  lady's  cheek 

Trembled  ;  she  nothing  said,  but,  pale  and  meek, 

Arose  and  knelt  before  him,  wept  a  rain 

Of  sorrows  at  his  words ;  at  last  with  pain 

Beseeching  him,  the  while  his  hand  she  wrung. 

To  change  his  purpose.     He  thereat  was  stung, 

Perverse,  with  stronger  fancy  to  reclaim 

Her  wild  and  timid  nature  to  his  aim  ; 

Besides,  for  all  his  love,  in  self  despite. 

Against  his  better  self,  he  took  delight 

Luxurious  in  her  sorrows,  soft  and  new. 

His  passion,  cruel  grown,  took  on  a  hue 

Fierce  and  sanguineous  as  't  was  possible 

In  one  whose  brow  had  no  dark  veins  to  swell. 

Fine  was  the  mitigated  fury, 'like 

Apollo's  presence  when  in  act  to  strike 

The  serpent — Ha,  the  serpent !  certes,  she 

Was  none.     She  burnt,  she  loved  the  tyranny, 

And,  all  subdued,  consented  to  the  hour 

When  to  the  bridal  he  should  lead  his  paramour. 

Whispering  in  midnight  silence,  said  the  youth, 

"  Sure  some  sweet  name  thou  hast,  though,  by  my  truth, 

I  have  not  ask'd  it,  ever  thinking  thee 

Not  mortal,  but  of  heavenly  progeny. 

As  still  I  do.     Hast  any  mortal  name, 

Fit  appellation  for  this  dazzling  frame  ? 


PART  II.]  LAMIA.  153 

Or  friends  or  kinsfolk  on  tlie  citied  earth, 
To  share  our  marriage  feast  and  nuptial  mirth  ?  " 
"  I  have  no  friends,"  said  Lamia,  "  no,  not  one  ; 
My  presence  in  wide  Corinth  hardly  known  : 
My  parents'  bones  are  in  their  dusty  urns 
Sepulchred,  where  no  kindled  incense  burns. 
Seeing  all  their  luckless  race  are  dead,  save  me, 
And  I  neglect  the  holy  rite  for  thee. 
Even  as  you  list  invite  your  many  guests  ; 
But  if,  as  now  it  seems,  your  vision  rests 
With  any  pleasure  on  me,  do  not  bid 
Old  Apollonius — from  him  keep  me  hid." 
Lycius,  perplex'd  at  words  so  blind  and  blank, 
Made  close  inquiry  ;  from  whose  touch  she  shrank, 
Feigning  a  sleep ;  and  he  to  the  dull  shade 
Of  deep  sleep  in  aanoment  was  betray 'd. 

It  was  the  custom  then  to  bring  away 
The  bride  from  home  at  blushing  shut  of  day, 
Veil'd,  in  a  chariot,  heralded  along 
By  strewn  flowers,  torches,  and  a  marriage  song. 
With  other  pageants:  but  this  fair  unknown 
Had  not  a  friend.     So  being  left  alone  * 

(Lycius  was  gone  to  summon  all  his  kin). 
And  knowing  surely  she  could  never  win 
His  foolish  heart  from  its  mad  pompousness, 
She  .set  herself,  high-thoughted,  how  to  dress 
The  misery  in  fit  magnificence. 
She  did  so,  but  't  is  doubtful  how  and  whence 
Came,  and  who  were  her  subtle  servitors. 
About  the  halls,  and  to  and  from  the  doors, 
There  was  a  noise  of  wings,  till  in  short  space 
The  glowing  banquet-room  shone  with  wide-arched  grace. 
8* 


]  5 1-  LAMIA.  [part  u. 

A  haunting  music,  sole  perhaps  and  lone 

Supportress  of  the  faery-roof,  made  moan 

Throughout,  as  fearful  the  whole  charm  might  fade. 

Fresh  carved  cedai",  mimicking  a  glade 

Of  palm  and  plantain,  met  from  either  side, 

High  in  the  midst,  in  honor  of  the  bride  : 

Two  palms  and  then  two  plantains,  and  so  on, 

From  either  side  their  stems  branch'd  one  to  one 

All  down  the  aisled  place  ;  and  beneath  all 

There  ran  a  stream  of  lamps  straight  on  from  wall  to  wall. 

So  canopied,  lay  an  untasted  feast 

Teeming  with  odors.     Lamia,  regal  drest, 

Silently  paced  about,  and  as  she  went,, 

In  pale  contented  sort  of  discontent, 

Mission'd  her  viewless  servants  to  enrich 

The  fretted  splendor  of  each  nook  and  niche. 

Between  the  tree-stems  marbled  plain  at  first, 

Came  jasper  panels ;  then,  anon,  there  burst 

Forth  creeping  imagery  of  slighter  trees, 

And  with  the  larger  wove  in  small  intricacies. 

Approving  all,  she  faded  at  self-will. 

And  shut  the  chamber  up,  close,  hush'd  and  still, 

Complete  and  ready  for  the  revels  rude. 

When  dreadful  guests  would  come  to  spoil  her  solitude. 

The  day  appear'd,  and  all  the  gossip  rout. 
O  senseless  Lycius  I  Madman !  wherefore  flout 
The  silent-blessing  fate,  warm  cloister 'd  liours, 
And  show  to  common. eyes  these  secret  bowers  ? 
The  herd  approach'd ;  each  guest,  with  busy  brain, 
Arriving  at  the  portal,  gazed  amain, 
And  enter'd  marvelling :  for  they  knew  the  street, 
Remember'd  it  from  childhood  all  complete 


PART  II.]  LAMIA.  loj 

Without  a  gap,  yet  ne'er  before  had  seen 
Tiiat  royal  porch,  that  liigh-built  fair  demesne ; 
So  in  they  hurried  all,  mazed,  curious  and  keen  : 
Save  one,  who  look'd  thereon  with  eye  severe, 
And  with  calm-planted  steps  walk'd  in  austere  ; 
'T  was  Apollonius :  something  too  he  laugh'd, 
As  though  some  knotty  problem,  that  had  daft 
His  patient  thought,  had  now  begun  to  thaw. 
And  solve  and  melt: — 't  was  just  as  he  foresaw. 

He  met  within  the  murmurous  vestibule 
His  young  disciple.     "  '"Tis  no  common  rule, 
Lycius,"  said  he,  "  for  uninvited  guest 
To  force  himself  upon  you,  and  infest 
"With  an  unbidden  presence  the  bright  throng 
Of  younger  friends ;  yet  must  I  do  this  wrong. 
And  you  forgive  me."     Lycius  blush'd  and  led 
The  old  man  through  the  inner  doors  broad-spread  ; 
With  reconciling  w^ords  and  courteous  mien 
Turning  into  sweet  milk  the  sophist's  spleen. 

Of  wealthy  lustre  was  the  banquet-room, 
Fill'd  with  pervading  brilliance  and  perfume  : 
Before  each  lucid  pannel  fuming  stood 
A  censer  fed  with  myrrh  and  spiced  wood, 
Each  by  a  sacred  tripod  held  aloft, 
Whose  slender  feet  wide-swerved  upon  the  soft 
Wool-woofed  carpets  :  fifty  wreaths  of  smoko 
From  fifty  censers  their  light  voyage  took 
To  the  high  roof,  still  mimick'd  as  they  rose 
Along  the  mirror'd  walls  by  twin-clouds  odorous. 
Twelve  sphered  tables  by  silk  seats  insphered, 
High  as  tlie  level  of  a  man's  breast  rear'd 
On  libbard's  paws,  upheld  the  heavy  gold 


156  LAMIA.  [part  II. 

Of  cups  and  goblets,  and  the  store  thrice  told 
Of  Ceres'  horn,  and,  in  huge  vessels,  wine 
Came  from  the  gloomy  tun  with  merry  shine. 
Thus  loaded  with  a  feast  the  tables  stood, 
Each  shrining  in  the  midst  the  image  of  a  God. 

When  in  an  antechamber  every  guest 
Had  felt  the  cold  full  sponge  to  pleasure  press'd, 
By  ministering  slaves,  upon  his  hands  and  feet, 
And  fragrant  oils  with  ceremony  meet 
Pour'd  on  his  hair,  they  all  moved  to  the  feast 
In  white  robes,  and  themselves  in  order  placed 
Around  the  silken  couches,  wondering 
Whence  all  this  mighty  cost  and  blaze  of  wealth  could  spring. 

Soft  went  the  music  the  soft  air  along, 
While  fluent  Greek  a  vowel'd  under-song 
Kept  up  among  the  guests,  discoursing  low 
At  first,  for  scarcely  was  the  wine  at  flow  ; 
But  when  the  happy  vintage  touch'd  their  brains, 
Louder  they  talk,  and  louder  come  the  strains 
Of  powerful  instruments  : — the  gorgeous  dyes. 
The  space,  the  splendor  of  the  draperies, 
The  roof  of  awful  richness,  nectarous  cheer, 
Beautiful  slaves,  and  Lamia's  self,  appear. 
Now,  when  the  wine  has  done  its  rosy  deed, 
And  every  soul  from  human  trammels  freed, 
No  more  so  strange  ;  for  merry  wine,  sweet  wine, 
Will  make  Elysian  shades  not  too  fair,  too  divine. 
Soon  was  God  Bacchus  at  meridian  height ; 
Flush'd  were  their  cheeks,  and  bright  eyes  double  bright : 
Garlands  of  every  green,  and  every  scent 
From  vales  deflower'd,  or  forest-trees  branch-rent, 


PART  II.]  LAMIA.  157 

In  baskets  of  bright  osier'd  gold  were  brought 
Higlj  as  the  handles  heap'd,  to  suit  the  thought 
Of  every  guest ;  that  each,  as  he  did  please, 
Might  fancy-fit  his  brows,  silk-pillow 'd  at  his  ease. 

What  wreath  for  Lamia  ?  What  for  Lycius  ? 
What  for  the  sage,  old  Apollonius  ? 
Upon  her  aching  forehead  be  there  hung 
The  leaves  of  willow  and  of  adder's  tongue ; 
And  for  the  youth,  quick,  let  us  strip  for  him  • 

The  thyrsus,  that  his  watching  eyes  may  swim 
Into  forgetfulness ;  and,  for  the  sage, 
Let  spear-grass  and  the  spiteful  thistle  wage 
War  on  his  temples.     Do  not  all  charms  fly 
At  the  mere  touch  of  cold  philosophy  ? 
There  was  an  awful  rainbow  once  in  heaven  : 
We  know  her  woof,  her  texture  ;  she  is  given 
In  the  dull  catalogue  of  common  things. 
Philosophy  will  clip  an  Angel's  wings, 
Conquer  all  mysteries  by  rule  and  line, 
Empty  the  haunted  air,  and  gnomed  mine — 
Unweave  a  rainbow,  as  it  erewhile  made 
The  tender-person'd  Lamia  melt  into  a  shade. 

By  her  glad  Lycius  sitting,  in  chief  place. 
Scarce  saw  in  all  the  room  another  face. 
Till,  checking  his  love  trance,  a  cup  he  took 
Full  brimm'd,  and  opposite  sent  forth  a  look 
'Cross  the  broad  table,  to  beseech  a  glance 
From  his  old  teacher's  wrinkled  countenance,  • 
And  pledge  him.     The  bald-head  philosopher 
Had  fix'd  his  eye,  without  a  twinkle  or  a  stir, 
Full  on  the  alarmed  beauty  of  the  bride, 


15S  LAMIA.  [part  ii. 

Brow-beating  her  fair  form,  and  troubling  her  sweet  pride. 

Lycius  then  press'd  her  hand,  with  devout  touch, 

As  pale  it  lay  upon  the  rosy  couch  : 

'T  was  icy,  and  the  cold  ran  through  his  veins  ; 

Then  sudden  it  grew  hot,  and  all  the  pains 

Of  an  unnatural  heat  shot  to  his  heart. 

"  Lamia,  what  means  this  ?     Wherefore  dost  thou  start  ? 

Know'st  thou  that  man  ?"     Poor  Lamia  answer'd  not. 

He  gazed  into  her  eyes,  and  not  a  jot 

Own'd  they  the  lovelorn  piteous  appeal : 

More,  more  he  gazed  :  his  human  senses  reel : 

Some  hungry  spell  that  loveliness  absorbs ; 

There  was  no  I'ecognition  in  those  orbs. 

"  Lamia  !"  he  cried — and  no  soft-toned  reply. 

The  many  heard,  and  the  loud  revelry 

Grew  hush ;  the  stately  music  no  more  breathes  ; 

The  myrtle  sicken'd  in  a  thousand  wreaths. 

By  faint  degrees,  voice,  lute,  and  pleasure  ceased  ; 

A  deadly  silence  step  by  step  increased. 

Until  it  seem'd  a  horrid  presence  there. 

And  not  a  man  but  felt  the  terror  in  his  hair. 

"  Lamia  !"  he  shriek'd  ;  and  nothing  but  the  shriek 

With  its  sad  echo  did  the  silence  break. 

"  Begone,  foul  dream!"  he  cried,  gazing  again 

In  the  bride's  face,  where  now  no  azure  vein 

Wander'd  on  fir-spac'd  temples  ;  no  soft  bloom 

Misted  the  cheek;  no  passion  to  illume 

The  deep-recessed  vision  : — all  was  blight ; 

Lamia,  no  longer  fair,  there  sat  a  deadly  white. 

*'  Shut,  shut  those  juggling  eyes,  thou  ruthless  man  ! 

Turn  them  aside,  wretch  !  or  the  righteous  ban 

Of  all  the  Gods,  whose  dreadful  images 

Here  represent  their  shadowy  presences. 


PART  II.]  LAMIA.  159 

May  pierce  them  on  the  sudden  with  the  thorn 

Of  painful  blindness  ;  leaving  thee  forlorn, 

In  trembling  dotage  to  the  feeblest  fright 

Of  conscience,  for  their  long-offended  might, 

For  all  thine  impious  proud-heart  sophistries, 

Unlawful  magic,  and  enticing  lies. 

Corinthians  !  look  upon  that  grey-beard  wretch  ! 

Mark  how,  possess'd,  his  lashless  eyelids  stretch 

Around  his  demon  eyes  !     Corinthians,  see  ! 

My  sweet  bride  withers  at  their  potency." 

"  Fool !"  said  the  sophist,  in  an  under  tone, 

Gruff  with  contempt ;  which  a  death-nighing  moan 

From  Lycius  answer'd,  as  heart-struck  and  lost, 

He  sank  supine  beside  the  aching  ghost. 

"  Fool  !  Fool !"  repeated  he,  while  his  eyes  still 

Relented  not,  nor  moved  ;  "  from  every  ill 

Of  life  have  I  preserved  thee  to  this  day. 

And  shall  I  see  thee  made  a  serpent's  prey  ?" 

Then  Lamia  breathed  death-breath  ;  the  sophist's  rye, 

Like  a  sharp  spear,  went  through  her  utterly, 

Keen,  cruel,  perceant,  stinging  :  she,  as  well 

As  her  weak  hand  could  any  meaning  tell, 

Motion'd  him  to  be  silent ;  vainly  so, 

He  look'd  and  look'd  again  a  level — No ! 

"  A  serpent !"  echoed  he  ;  no  sooner  said^ 

Than  with  a  frightful  scream  she  vanished  : 

And  Lycius'  arms  were  empty  of  delight, 

As  were  his  limbs  of  life,  from  that  same  night. 

On  the  high  couch  he  lay ! — his  friends  came  round — 

Supported  him — no  pulse  or  breath  they  found, 

And,  in  its  marriage  robe,  the  heavy  body  wound.* 

•  "  Philostratus,  in  his  fourth  book  de  Vita  ApoUonii,  hath  a  memorable 
instance  in  this  kind,  which  I  may  not  omit,  of  one  Menippus  Lycius,  a  young 


160  LAMIA.  [part  ii. 

man  twenty-five  years  of  age,  that  going  betwixt  Cenchreas  and  Corinth,  met 
such  a  phantasm  in  the  habit  of  a  fair  gentlewoman,  T/hich,  taking  him  by 
the  hand,  carried  him  home  to  her  house,  in  the  suburbs  of  Corinth,  and  told 
him  she  was  a  PhcEnician  by  birth,  and  if  he  would  tarry  with  her,  he 
should  hear  her  sing  and  play,  and  drink  such  wine  as  never  any  drank,  and 
no  man  should  molest  him  :  but  she,  being  fair  and  lovely.  Would  die  with 
him,  that  was  fair  and  lovely  to  behold.  The  young  man,  a  philosopher, 
otherwise  staid  and  discreet,  able  to  moderate  his  passions,  though  not  this  of 
love,  tarried  with  her  awhile  to  his  great  content,  and  at  last  married  her, 
to  whose  wedding,  amongst  other  guests,  came  Apollonius ;  who,  by  some 
probable  conjectures,  found  her  out  to  be  a  serpent,  a  lamia;  and  that  all 
her  furniture  was,  like  Tantalus'  gold,  described  by  Homer,  no  substance 
but  mere  illusions.  When  she  saw  herself  descried,  she  wept,  and  desired 
Apollonius  to  be  silent,  but  he  would  not  be  moved,  and  thereupon  she, 
plate,  house,  and  all  that  was  in  it,  vanished  in  an  instant :  many  thousands 
took  notice  of  this  fact,  for  it  was  done  in  the  midst  of  Greece." — Burton's 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  Part  3,  Sect.  2,  Memb.  I.,  Subs.  I. 


END    OF    PART    I. 


WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S 

LIBRARY  OF 

CHOICE    READING. 

POETICAL     VORKS 

OF 

JOHN  KEATS. 

PART  II. 


THE 


POETICAL     WORKS 


JOHN  KEATS 


IN  TWO  PARTS. 
PART  ir. 


N  E  W  .  Y  O  R  K : 

WILEY    &    PUTNAM,   101     RPvOADWAY, 

184G. 


C.    A.    Al.VORD,    PRI«rTKR, 

Cor.  John  '.nd  Dutch  Sts. 


r.    R.    SMITir,    STKUKllTYl'Kn 

216  William  Plmcl. 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 

ISABELLA,    OR  THE  POT  OF  BASIL;    A  Story   from  Boc- 
caccio       1 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 25 

HYPERION 43 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS— 

DEDICATION  TO  LEIGH  HUNT,  ESQ.              .            .            .             .            .  77 

"  I  STOOD  TIPTOE  UPON  A  LITTLE  HILL.  "                    ...  ib. 

SPECIMEN  OF  AN  INDUCTION  TO  A  POEM             ....  85 

CALIDORE:    a  FRAGMENT     .            .             .            .            .            .            .  87 

TO    SOME  LADIES,  ON  RECEIVING  A  CURIOUS  SHELL              .          '.  93 

ON  RECEIVING  A  COPY  OF  VERSES  FROM  THE  SAME  LADIES  94 

TO  ..........  96 

TO    HOPE         ..........  98 

IMITATION   OF  SPENSER     .  "  .  .  .  .  .  .100 

"woman  !    WHEN  I  BEHOLD  THEE  FLIPPANT,  VAIN  "              .  101 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE              .......  102 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN   URN 105 

ODE  TO  PSYCHE            .            .            .            .            .            .            .            .            .  107 

FANCY              ..........  109 

ODE  .  ...  .  .  .  .  .  .  .112 

TO  AUTUMN                           .            .            .            .            .            .             .            .  114 

ODE    ON    MELANCHOLY    .  ."  .  .  .  .  .  .115 

SLEEP    AND    POETRY     .             . H'^' 

LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN   ......  129 

ROBIN  HOOD              .........  130 

SONNETS— 

TO  MY   BROTHER  GEORGE             .......  133 

TO ..........  ib. 


vi  CONTENTS. 


-  PAGE 

"O  SOI.,ITUDE  !    IF  I  Mt'ST  WITH  THEE  DWELL  "        .       '*^.  *.       .  13t 

"  HOW  MANY  BARDS  GILD  THE  LAPSES  OF  TIME  !"       .            .  lb 

TO  A  FRIEND  WHO  SENT  ME  SOME  ROSES             ....  IS-'J 

TO  G.   A.  W.     .            .            .                          .                                      .            .             .  13G 

WRITTEN  ON  TJIE  DAY  THAT  MR.   LEIGH  HUNT  LEFT  PRISON  ib 

TO  MY  BROTHERS                           .......  137 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN's  HOMER              .             .             .  ib. 

ON  LEAVING  SOME  -FRIENDS  AT  AN   EARLY  HOUR                           .  J  3S 

"  KEEN  FITFUL  GUSTS  ARE  WHISPERING  HERE  AND  THERE  "  ib. 

"  TO  ONE  WHO  HAS  BEEN   LONG  IN  CITY  PENT  "               .              .  139 

ADDRESSED  TO  HAYDON    ........  ib. 

TO  THE  SAME       . 1-10 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER   AND  CRICKET         .....  ib. 

TO  KOSCIUSKO         .........  141 

"  HAPPY  IS  ENGLAND  !    I  COULD  BE  CONTENT "         .             .             .  142 

THE  HUMAN  SEASONS  ........  ib. 

ON  A  PICTURE  OFLEANDER       .......  143 

TO  AILS.\  ROCK        .........  ib. 

EPISTLE,S- 

TO  GEORGE  FELTON  MATHEW        ....             .             .  144 

TO  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE            .......  147 

TO  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE 1^)2 

STANZAS l-'>7 


ISABELLA: 


OR, 


THE    POT    OF    BASIL 


A    STORY,    FROM    BOCCACCIO. 


ISABELLA 


Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel ! 

Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  Love's  eye  ! 
They  could  not  in  the  self-same  mansion  dwell 

Without  some  stir  of  heart,  some  malady  ; 
They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  how  well 

It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by  ; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same  roof  sleep. 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly  weep. 


With  every  morn  their  love  grew  tenderer, 
With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still ; 

He  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden  stir, 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing  fill ; 

And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 
To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill ; 

Her  lutestring  gave  an  echo  of  his  name, 

She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the  same. 


ISABELLA. 


He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the  latch, 
Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his  eyes ; 

And  from  her  chamber! window  he  would  catch 
Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  spies  ; 

And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he  watch, 
Because  her  face  was  turn'd  to  the  same  skies  ; 

And  with  sick  longing  all  the  night  outwear, 

To  hear  her  morning  step  upon  the  stair. 


A  whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad  plight 
Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break  of  June  : 

*'  To-morrow  will  I  bow  to  my  delight, 

To-morrow  will  I  ask  my  lady's  boon." — 

"  O  may  I  never  see  another  night, 

Lorenzo,  if  thy  lips  breathe  not  love's  tune." — 

So  spake  they  to  iheir  pillows  ;   but,  alas, 

Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass  : 


lentil  sweet  Isabella's  untouch'd  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose's  just  domain. 

Fell  thin  as  a  young  mother's,  who  doth  seek 
By  every  lull  to  cool  her  infant's  pain  : 

"  How  ill  she  is  !"  said  he,  "  I  may  not  speak, 
And  yet  I  will,  and  tell  my  love  all  plain  : 

If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I  will  drink  her  tears. 

And  at  the  least  'twill  startle  off  her  cares." 


ISABELLA. 


So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His  heart  beat  awfully  against  his  side : 

And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 

For  power  to  speak ;  but  still  the  ruddy  tide 

Stifled  his  voice,  and  pulsed  resolve  away — 
Fever'd  his  high  conceit  of  such  a  bride, 

Yet  brought  him  to  the  meekness  of  a  child : 

Alas !  when  passion  is  both  meek  and  wild  ! 


So  once  more  he  had  waked  and  anguished 
A  dreary  night  of  love  and  misery, 

If  Isabel's  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 
To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead  high  ; 

She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead, 

And  straight  all  flush'd  ;  so,  lisped  tenderly, 

"  Lorenzo  !" — here  she  ceased  her  timid  quest, 

But  in  her  tone  and  look  he  read  the  rest. 


VIII. 

"  O  Isabella!  I  can  half  perceive 

That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine  ear  j 

If  thou  didst  ever  anything  believe. 

Believe  how  I  love  thee,  believe  how  near 

My  soul  is  to  its  doom  :  I  would  not  grieve 

Thy  hand  by  unwelcome  pressing,  would  not  fear 

Thine  eyes  by  gazing  ;  but  I  cannot  live 

Another  night,  and  not  my  passion  shrive. 


ISABELLA. 


"  Love  !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry  cold, 
Lady  !  thou  leadest  me  to  summer  clime, 

And  I  must  taste  the  blossoms  that  unfold 

In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious  morning  time." 

So  said,  his  erewhile  timid  lips  grew  bold, 
And  poesied  with  liers  in  dewy  rhyme  : 

Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great  happiness 

Grew,  like  a  lusty  flower  in  June's  caress. 


X. 


Parting  they  seem'd  to  tread  upon  the  air, 
Twin  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  apart 

Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and  share 
The  inward  fragrance  of  each  other's  heart. 

She,  to  her  chamber  gone,  a  ditty  fair 
Sang,  of  delicious  love  and  honey 'd  dart ; 

He  with  light  steps  went  up  a  western  hill. 

And  bade  the  sun  farewell,  and  joy'd  his  fill. 


XI. 


All  close  they  met  again,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil, 

All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil, 

Close  in  a  bower  of  hyacinth  and  musk, 
Unknown  of  any,  free  from  whispering  tale. 

Ah  !  better  had  it  been  for  ever  so, 

Than  idle  ears  should  pleasure  in  their  wo. 


ISABELLA. 


Were  they  unhappy  then  ? — It  cannot  be — 
Too  many  tears  for  lovers  have  been  shed, 

Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee, 
Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead, 

Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see, 

Whose  matter  in  bright  gold  were  best  be  read ; 

Except  in  such  a  page  where  Theseus'  spouse 

Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him  bows. 


But,  for  the  general  award  of  love, 

The  little  sweet  doth  kill  much  bitterness : 

Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove, 
And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress, 

Though  young  Lorenzo  in  warm  Indian  clove 
Was  not  embalm'd,  this  truth  is  not  the  less — 

Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring-bowers. 

Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison-flowers. 


With  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt. 
Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandise, 

And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 
In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories,  - 

And  many  once  proud-quiver'd  loins  did  melt 
In  blood  from  stinging  whip ;  with  hollow  eyes 

Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 

To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  flood. 


ISABELLA. 


For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath, 
And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark  ; 

For  them  his  ears  gush'd  blood  ;  for  them  in  death 
The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with  piteous  bark 

Lay  full  of  darts  ;   for  them  alone  did  seethe 
A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark  : 

Half-ignorant,  they  turn'd  an  easy  wheel, 

That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel. 

XVI. 

Why  were  they  proud  ?     Because  their  marble  founts* 
Gush'd  with  more  pride  than  do  a  wretch's  tears  ? 

Why  were  they  proud  ?     Because  fair  orange-mounts 
Were  of  more  soft  ascent  than  lazar  stairs  ? 

Why  were  they  proud  ?     Because  red-lined  accounts 
Were  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian  years  '? 

Why  were  they  proud  1  again  we  ask  aloud. 

Why  in  the  name  of  Glory  were  they  proud  ? 


XVII. 

Yet  were  these  Florentines  as  self- retired 
In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice, 
As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  inspired, 

Paled  in  and  vineyarded  from  beggar-spies  ; 
The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests — the  untired 

And  pannier'd  mules  for  ducats  and  old  lies- 
Quick  cat's-paws  on  the  generous  stray-away ,- 
Great  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and  Malay. 


ISABELLA. 


xvin. 

How  was  it  these  same  ledger-men  could  spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest  ? 
How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo's  eye 

A  straying  from  his  toil  ?     Hot  Egypt's  pest 
Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly  ! 

How  could  these  money-bags  see  east  and  west  ? 
Yet  so  they  did — and  every  dealer  fair 
Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 


XIX. 


O  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio  ! 

Of  thee  we  now  shall  ask  forgiving  boon, 
And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon, 
And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghittern's  tune. 
For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 
The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a  piteous  theme. 


XX. 

Grant  thou  a  pardon  here,  and  then  the  tale 
Shall  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet ; 

There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 

To  make  old  prose  in  modern  rhyme  more  sweet 

But  it  is  done — succeed  the  verse  or  fail — 
To  honor  thee,  and  thy  gone  spirit  greet ; 

To  stead  thee  as  a  verse  in  English  tongue, 

An  echo  of  thee  in  the  north-wind  sung. 

2* 


10  ISABELLA. 


T'hese  brethren  having  found  by  many  signs 
What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister  had, 

And  how  she  loved  him  too,  each  unconfines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  well  nigh  mad 

That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  designs. 

Should  in  their  sister's  love  be  blithe  and  glad, 

When  't  was  their  plan  to  coax  her  by  degrees 

To  some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 

xxn. 

And  many  a  jealous  conference  had  they, 
And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips  alone, 

Before  they  fix'd  upon  a  surest  way  ^ 

To  make  the  youngster  for  his  crime  atone  ; 

And  at  the  last,  these  men  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  Mercy  with  a  sharp  knife  to  the  bone ; 

For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 

To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him. 

XXIII. 

So  on  a  pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 

Into  the  sun-rise,  o'er  the  balustrade 
Of  the  garden-terrace,  towards  him  they  bent 

Their  footing  through  the  dews  ;  and  to  him  said, 
"  You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  content, 

Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loath  to  invade 
Calm  speculation  ;  but  if  you  are  wise. 
Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the  skies. 


ISABELLA.  11 


"  To-day  we  purpose,  ay,  this  hour  we  mount 
To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Apennine ; 

Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hot  sun  count 
His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine." 

Lorenzo,  courteously  as  he  was  wont, 

Bow'd  a  fair  greeting  to  these  serpents'  whine  ; 

And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness, 

With  belt,  and  spur,  and  bracing  huntsman's  dress. 

XXV. 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass'd  along. 
Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and  listen'd  oft 

If  he  could  hear  his  lady's  matin-song, 
Or  the  light  whisper  of  her  footstep  soft ; 

And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung, 
He  heard  a  laugh  full  musical  aloft ; 

When,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  features  bright 

Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice  all  delight. 


"  Love,  Isabel !"  said  he,  "I  was  in  pain 

Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good  morrow  • 

Ah !  what  if  I  should  lose  thee,  when  so  fain 
I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 

Of  a  poor  three  hours'  absence  ?  but  we'll  gain 
Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day  doth  borrow. 

Good  bye!  I'll  soon  be  back," — "  Good  bye  !"  said  she  ; 

And  as  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 


12  ISABELLA. 


XXVII. 


So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder'd  man 

Rode  past  fair  Florence,  to  where  Arno's  stream 

Gurgles  through  straiten'd  banks,  and  still  doth  fan 
Itself  with  dancing  bulrush,  and  the  bream 

Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.     Sick  and  wan 
The  brothers'  faces  in  the  ford  did  seem, 

Lorenzo's  flush  with  love.     They  pass'd  the  water 

Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 


There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in. 

There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love  cease  ; 

Ah  !  when  a  soul  doth  thus  its  freedom  win, 
It  aches  in  loneliness — is  ill  at  peace 

As  the  break-covert  blood-hounds  of  such  sin : 

They  dipp'd  their  swords  in  the  water,  and  did  tease 

Their  horses  homeward,  with  convulsed  spur, 

Each  richer  by  his  being  a  murderer. 


They  told  their  sister  how,  with  sudden  speed, 
Lorenzo  had  ta'en  ship  for  foreign  lands, 

Because  of  some  great  urgency  and  need 
In  their  affairs,  requiring  trusty  hands. 

Poor  girl !  put  on  thy  stifling  widow's  weed, 

And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  accursed  bands ; 

To-day  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to-morrow, 

And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 


ISABELLA  13 


She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be  ; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came  on, 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  O  misery  ! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone : 
His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see, 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan. 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air. 
And  on  her  couch  low  murmuring,  "Where?  O  where?' 

XXXI. 


But  Selfishness,  Love's  cousin,  held  not  Ions 
Its  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast : 

She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and  hung 
Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest — 

Not  long  ;  for  soon  into  her  heart  a  throng 
Of  higher  occupants,  a  richer  zest, 

Came  tragic ;  passion  not  to  be  subdued. 

And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels  rude. 


In  the  mid  days  of  autumn,  on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from  far  away. 

And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  roundelay 

Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the  leaves, 
To  make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to  stray 

From  his  north  cavern.     So  sweet  Isabel 

By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 


14  ISABELLA. 


Because  Lorenzo  came  not.     Oftentimes 

She  ask'd  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all  pale, 

Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  climes 

Could  keep  him  off  so  long  ?     They  spake  a  tale 

Time  after  time,  to  quiet  her.     Their  crimes 

Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  Hinnom's  vale ; 

And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groan'd  aloud, 

To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 

XXXIV. 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance, 

But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than  all ; 

It  came  like  a  fierce  potion,  drunk  by  chance, 
Which  saves  a  sick  man  from  the  feather 'd  pall 

For  some  few  gasping  moments  ;  like  a  lance. 
Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy  hall 

With  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him  again 

Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and  brain. 

XXXV. 

It  was  a  vision.     In  the  drowsy  gloom. 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her  couch's  foot 

Lorenzo  stood,  and  wept :  the  forest  tomb 

Had  marr'd  his  glossy  hair  which  once  could  shoot 

Lustre  into  the  sun,  and  put  cold  doom 
Upon  his  lips,  and  taken  the  soft  lute 

From  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  his  loamed  ears 

Had  made  a  miry  channel  for  his  tears. 


ISABELLA.  15 


Strange  sound  it  was,  when  the  pale  shadow  spake  ; 

For  there  was  striving,  in  its  piteous  tongue, 
To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  was  awake, 

And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung  : 
Languor  there  was  in  it,  and  tremulous  shake, 

As  in  a  palsied  Druid's  harp  unstrung  ; 
And  through  it  moan'd  a  ghostly  under-song, 
Like  hoarse  night-gusts  sepulchral  briars  among. 

XXXVII. 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy  bright 
With  love,  and  kept  all  phantom  fear  aloof 

From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their  light, 
The  while  it  did  unthread  the  horrid  woof 

Of  the  late  darken'd  time — the  murderous  spite 
Of  pride  and  avarice — the  dark  pine  roof 

In  the  forest — and  the  sodden  turfed  dell, 

Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs  he  fell. 


Saying  moreover,  "  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 

Red  whortle-berries  droop  above  my  head. 
And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my  feet ; 

Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts  shed 
Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts  ;  a  sheep-fold  bleat 

Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed : 
Gro,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  heather-bloom, 
And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb. 


16  ISABELLA. 


XXXIX. 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas  !  alas  ! 

Upon  the  skirts  of  human  nature  dwelling 
Alone  :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass, 

While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me  knelling, 
And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  fieldward  pass, 

And  many  a  chapel  bell  the  hour  is  telling, 
Paining  me  through  :  those  sounds  grow  strange  to  me, 
And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 


XL. 

"  I  know  what  was,  I  feel  full  well  what  is. 
And  I  should  Tage,  if  spirits  could  go  mad  ; 

Though  I  forget  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss, 

That  paleness  warms  my  grave,  as  though  I  had 

A  seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 

To  be  my  spouse  :  thy  paleness  makes  me  glad  : 

Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I  feel 

A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence  steal." 


The  Spirit  mourn'd  "  Adieu  ! " — dissolved,  and  left 
The  atom  darkness  in  a  slow  turmoil  ; 

As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep  bereft, 
Thinking  on  rugged  hours  and  fruitless  toil. 

We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  cleft, 

And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and  boil : 

It  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache, 

And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake ; 


ISABELLA.  17 


"  Ha  !  ha  ! "  said  she,  "  I  knew  not  this  hard  life, 
I  thought  the  worst  was  simple  misery ; 

I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or  with  strife 
Portion'd  us — happy  days,  or  else  to  die  ; 

But  there  is  crime — a  brother's  bloody  knife  ! 
Sweet  Spirit,  thou  hast  school'd  my  infancy  : 

I'll  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine  eyes, 

And  greet  thee  morn  and  even  in  the  skies." 


When  the  full  morning  came,  she  had  devised 
How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie ; 

How  she  might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly  prized. 
And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby  ; 

How  her  short  absence  might  be  unsurmised, 
While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream  would  try. 

Resolved,  she  took  with  her  an  aged  nurse, 

And  went  into  that  dismal  forest-hearse. 


See,  as  they  creep  along  the  river  side, 

How  shs  doth  whisper  to  that  aged  dame, 
And,  after  looking  round  the  champaign  wide, 

Shows  her  a  knife. — "  What  feverous  hectic  flame 
Burns  in  thee,  child  ? — what  good  can  thee  betide 

That  thou  shouldst  smile  again  ?  " — The  evening  came. 
And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed  ; 
The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his  head. 


18  ISABELLA. 


XLV. 

Who  hath  not  loiter'd  in  a  green  church-yard, 
And  let  his  spirit,  like  a  demon  mole. 

Work  through  the  clayey  soil  and  gravel  hard, 
To  see  skull,  coffin'd  bones,  and  funeral  stole  ; 

Pitying  each  form  that  hungry  Death  hath  marr'd, 
And  filling  it  once  more  with  human  soul  ? 

Ah !  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 

When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 


She  gazed  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould,  as  though 
One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets  tell ; 

Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 
Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well ; 

Upon  the  murderous  spot  she  seem'd  to  grow, 
Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell : 

Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden  she  began 

To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 

XLVII. 

Soon  she  turn'd  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 
Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  phantasies ; 

She  kiss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  stone, 
And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries 

And  freezes  utterly  unto  the  bone 

Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  infant's  cries  : 

Then  'gan  she  work  again ;  nor  stay'd  her  care, 

But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling  hair. 


ISABELLA.  19 


XLVIII. 


That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wondering, 
Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 

At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  laboring, 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar, 

And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing : 
Three  hours  they  labor'd  at  this  travail  sore  ; 

At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave, 

And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 


Ah !  wherefore  all  this  wormy  circumstance  ? 

Why  linger  at  the  yawning  tomb  so  long  ? 
O  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 

The  simple  plaining  of  a  minstrel's  song  ! 
Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance, 

For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  well  belong 
To  speak : — O  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale. 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 


With  duller  steel  than  the  Persean  sword 
They  cut  away  no  formless  monster's  head, 

But  one,  whose  gentleness  did  well  accord 

With  death,  as  life.     The  ancient  harps  have  said. 

Love  never  dies,  but  lives,  ijjpmortal  Lord  : 
If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead, 

Pale  Isabella  kiss'd  it,  and  low  moan'd. 

'T  was  love  ;  cold, — dead  indeed,  but  not  dethroned. 


20  ISABELLA. 


In  anxious  secresy  they  took  it  home, 
And  then  the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel : 

She  calm'd  its  wild  hair  with  a  golden  comb, 
And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 

Pointed  each  fringed  lash ;  the  smeared  loam 
With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well, 

She  drench'd  away  : — and  still  she  comb'd  and  kept 

Sighing  all  day — and  still  she  kiss'd  and  wept. 


Then  in  a  silken  scarf, — sweet  with  the  dews 
Of  precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 

And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous  ooze 
Through  the  cold  serpent-pipe  refreshfully, — 

She  wrapp'd  it  up  ;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 
A  garden- pot,  wherein  she  laid  it  by. 

And  cover'd  it  with  mould,  and  o'er  it  set 

Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 


And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  sun. 
And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees, 

And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run. 
And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze  ; 

She  had  no  knowledge  whefi  the  day  was  done. 
And  the  new  morn  she  saw  not :  but  in  peace 

Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore. 

And  moisten'd  it  with  tears  unto  the  core. 


ISABELLA.  21 


And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears, 

Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  beautiful  it  grew, 

So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its  peers 
Of  Basil-tufts  in  Florence  ;  for  it  drew 

Nurture  besides,  and  life,  from  human  fears, 

From  the  fast  mouldering  head  there  shut  from  view 

So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed, 

Came  forth,  and  in  perfumed  leafits  spread. 


O  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly  ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh  ! 
Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,  and  smile ; 

Lift  up  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits,  heavily. 
And  make  a  pale  light  in  your  cypress  glooms, 
Tinting  with  silver  wan  your  marble  tombs. 


Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  wo. 

From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  Melpomene  ! 

Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order  go. 
And  touch  the  strings  into  a  mystery ; 

Sound  mournfully  upon  the  winds  and  low ; 
For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 

Among  the  dead :  She  withers,  like  a  palm 

Cut  by  an  Indian  for  its  juicy  balm. 


22  ISABELLA. 


O  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself; 

Let  not  quick  Winter  chill  its  dying  hour ! — 
It  may  not  be — those  Baalites  of  pelf, 

Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual  shower 
From  her  dead  eyes ;  and  many  a  curious  elf, 

Among  her  kindred,  wonder'd  that  such  dower 
Of  youth  and  beauty  should  be  thrown  aside 
By  one  mark'd  out  to  be  a  Noble's  bride. 

LVIII. 

And,  furthermore,  her  brethren  wonder'd  much 
Why  she  sat  drooping  by  the  Basil  green, 

And  why  it  flourish'd,  as  by  magic  touch  ; 

Greatly  they  wonder'd  what  the  thing  might  mean  : 

They  could  not  surely  give  belief,  that  such 
A  very  nothing  would  have  power  to  wean 

Her  from  her  own  fair  youth,  and  pleasures  gay, 

And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  delay. 


LIX. 

Therefore  they  watch'd  a  time  when  they  might  sift 
This  hidden  whim  ;  and  long  they  watch'd  in  vain  ; 

For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift. 
And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pain  ; 

And  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back,  as  swift 
As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs  again : 

And,  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 

Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her  hair. 


ISABELLA.  23 


LX. 


Yet  they  contrived  to  steal  the  Basil-pot, 
And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place  : 

The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid  spot, 
And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face  : 

The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had  got. 
And  so  left  Florence  in  a  moment's  space. 

Never  to  turn  again. — Away  they  went. 

With  blood  upon  their  heads,  to  banishment. 


LXI. 


O  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away  ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day, 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us, — O  sigh ! 
Spirits  of  grief,  sing  not  your  •'  Well-a-way  T" 

For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die  ; 
Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete. 
Now  they  have  ta'en  away  her  Basil  sweet. 


Piteous  she  look'd  on  dead  and  senseless  things, 
Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously : 

And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the  strings 
Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes  would  cry 

After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings, 

To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was ;  and  why 

'T  was  hid  from  her :  "  For  cruel  't  is,"  said  she, 

"  To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me." 


24  ISABELLA. 


LXIII. 


And  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn, 

Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 
No  heart  was  there  in  Florence  but  did  mourn 

In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 
And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  born 

From  mouth  to  mouth  through  all  the  country  pass'd 
Still  is  the  burthen  sung — "  O  cruelty, 
To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me  !  " 


THE    EYE    OF    ST.  AGNES. 


PART  U.  3 


THE    EVE    OF    ST.  AGNES. 


St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath. 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death. 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith. 


His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  i-iseth  fi'om  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees  ; 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries. 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 


28  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


III. 

Northward  he  lurneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
l''latter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
Hut  no — already  had  his  death-bell  rung  ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung : 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve  : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve. 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 

IV. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide  : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests  : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on  their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry. 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stuff 'd,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  29 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight. 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey 'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  tliat  they  desire. 

VII. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline  : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard  :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all  :  in  ^-ain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retired  ;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 

vni. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short. 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand  :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy  ;  all  amort, 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn. 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 


30  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 

TX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance,  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth  such  things  have 
been. 

X. 

He  ventures  in :  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart.  Love's  feverous  citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage  :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 


Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came. 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame. 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland  : 
He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face. 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro !  hie  thee  from  tiiis  place  ; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-tliirsty  race ! 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  31 


XII. 

"  Get  hence  !  get  hence  !  there's  dwarfish  Hildebrand  ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit, 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land  : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  grey  hairs — Alas  nie  !  flit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "  Ah,  Gossip  dear, 
We're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how  " — "  Good  Saints  !  not  here,  not  here  ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 


He  follow'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way. 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ; 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a — Well-a-day," 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room. 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see. 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

XIV. 

"  St.  Agnes  !     Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve- 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days  : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  aiui  Fays, 
To  venture  so  :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  ! — St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night  :  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 


32  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

XVI. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  tliou  art : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !     I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst  seem." 


"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  wliisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than  wolves  and  bears." 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  33 


'•'  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricUen,  churchyard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening. 
Were  never  miss'd."     Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  wo. 


Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secresy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met. 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 


"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame  r 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while  :  Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGx\ES. 

xxr. 

So  saying  she  hobbled  ofT  with  busy  fear, 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd  ; 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd  and  chaste ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 


Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade. 
Old  Angela  was  feeling;  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid. 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware  ; 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care. 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare. 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd  and  fled. 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  iu  : 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  : 
No  utter'd  syllable,  or,  wo  betide  ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  35 


A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings: 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 


Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintiy  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon  ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest. 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  : — Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 


Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees  ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice  ;   by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees: 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 


36  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  cliilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day  ; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pahi ; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray  ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 


Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness  ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself:  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept. 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo  ! — how  fast  she  slept. 


Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Afiray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  : — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  37 


And  still  she  slept  an  azure- lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brouglit  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 
With  jellies  smoother  than  the  creamy  curd. 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transfer r'd 
From  Fez  ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar 'd  Lebanon. 


These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 


Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  : — 't  was  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam  ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies : 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes  ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phantasies. 


38  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  call'd  "  La  belle  dame  sans  merci :" 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were,  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  e.xpell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  w  itless  words  with  many  a  sigh  ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep  ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye. 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

"  Ah,  Porphyro  !"  said  she,  "  but  even  now, 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear : 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear  ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear  ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  wo, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  30 


Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion 'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 


'T  is  dark  :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet ; 
"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  !" 
'T  is  dark  :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  wo  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine. 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing  ; — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 


"  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride  ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 


40  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 

XXXIX. 

"  Hark  !  't  is  an  elfin-storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 
Arise  !  arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed  : — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed  ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead  : 
Awake !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 

XL. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears. 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around. 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found, 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar  ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 


They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall  ! 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide. 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  : 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  41 


And  they  are  gone  :  ay,  ages  long  ago, 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  wo, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform  ; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


HYPERION. 


BOOK    I 


Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 

Sat  grey-haired  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair  ; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deaden'd  more 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  a  shade  :  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 

Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks  went, 
No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray 'd. 
And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred  ;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed  ; 
While  his  bow'd  head  seem'd  listening  to  the  Earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his  place ; 
But  there  came  one,  who  with  a  kindred  hand 


46  HYPERION.  [book  i. 

Touch'd  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 

With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not. 

She  was  a  Goddess  of  the  infant  world  ; 

By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 

Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height :  she  would  have  ta'en 

Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck ; 

Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel. 

Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian  sphinx, 

Pedestal'd  haply  in  a  palace-court, 

When  sages  look'd  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 

But  oh  !  how  unlike  marble  was  that  face  : 

How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 

Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty's  self. 

There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard. 

As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  ; 

As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 

Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear 

Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up. 

One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot, 

Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there, 

Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain  : 

The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended"  neck 

She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 

Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she  spake 

In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ  tone  : 

Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble  tongue 

Would  come  in  these  like  accents  ;  O  how  frail 

To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods  ! 

"  Saturn,  look  up  ! — though  wherefore,  poor  old  King  ? 

I  have  no  comfort  for  thee,  no  not  one  : 

I  cannot  say,  '  O  wherefore  sleepest  thou  V 

For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  earth 

Knows  thee  not,  thus  afflicted,  for  a  God ; 


BOOK  i]  HYPERION.  47 


And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise, 
Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd  ;  and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 
Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  command, 
Rjumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  ; 
And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised  hands, 
Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain 
O  aching  time  !     O  moments  big  as  years  ! 
All  as  ye  pass  swell  out  the  monstrous  truth, 
And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 
That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
Saturn,  sleep  on : — O  thoughtless,  why  did  I 
Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  ? 
Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ? 
Saturn,  sleep  on  !  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep." 

As  when,  upon  a  tranced  summer-night, 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods. 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir. 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off, 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave  : 
So  came  these  words  and  went ;  the  while  in  tears 
She  touch'd  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the  ground, 
Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  outspread 
A  soft  and  silken  mat  for  Saturn's  feet. 
One  moon,  with  alteration  slow,  had  shed 
Her  silver  seasons  four  upon  the  night. 
And  still  these  two  were  postured  motionless, 
Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cavern  ; 
The  frozen  God  still  couchant  on  the  earth, 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet : 


48  HYPERION.  [book  i. 


Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up     . 

His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone, 

And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place, 

And  that  fair  kneeling  Goddess;  and  then  spake 

As  with  a  palsied  tongue,  and  while  his  beard 

Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady  : 

"  O  tender  spouse  of  gold  Hyperion, 

Thea,  I  feel  thee  ere  I  see  thy  face  ; 

Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it ; 

Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 

Is  Saturn's ;  tell  me,  if  thou  hear'st  the  voice 

Of  Saturn  ;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow, 

Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem, 

Peers  like  the  front  of  Saturn.     Who  had  power 

To  make  me  desolate  ?  whence  came  the  strength  ? 

How  was  it  nurtured  to  such  bursting  forth, 

While  Fate  seem'd  strangled  in  my  nervous  grasp  ? 

But  it  is  so ;  and  I  am  smother'd  up, 

And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 

Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale, 

Of  admonitions  to  the  winds  and  seas. 

Of  peaceful  sway  above  man's  harvesting, 

And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 

Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in.     I  am  gone 

Away  from  my  own  bosom  :  I  have  left 

My  strong  identity,  my  real  self, 

Somewhere  between  the  throne,  and  where  I  sit 

Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.     Search,  Thea,  search  ? 

Open  thine  eyes  eterne,  and  sphere  them  round 

Upon  all  space  :  space  starr'd,  and  lorn  of  light : 

Space  region'd  with  life-air,  and  barren  void ; 

Spaces  of  fire,  and  all  the  yawn  of  hell. 

Search,  Thea,  search  !  and  tell  me  if  thou  seest 


BOOK  i]  HYPERION.  49 


A  certain  shape^r  shadow,  making  way 

With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 

A  heaven  lie  lost  erewhile  :  it  must — it  must 

Be  of  ripe  progress — Saturn  must  be  king. 

Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  victory  ; 

There  must  be  Gods  thrown  down,  and  trumpets  blown 

Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 

Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan, 

Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir 

Of  strings  in  hollow  shells  ;  and  there  shall  be 

Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 

Of  the  sky-children  ;  I  will  give  command  : 

Thea  !  Thea !  Thea !  where  is  Saturn  ?" 

This  passion  lifted  him  upon  his  feet, 
And  made  his  hands  to  struggle  in  the  air, 
His  Druid  locks  to  shake  and  ooze  with  sweat. 
His  eyes  to  fever  out,  his  voice  to  cease. 
He  stood,  a«d  heard  not  Thea's  sobbing  deep  ; 
A  little  time,  and  then  again  he  snatch'd 
Utterance  thus  : — "  But  cannot  I  create  ? 
Cannot  I  form  ?  Cannot  I  fashion  forth 
Another  world,  another  universe. 
To  overbear  and  crumble  this  to  naught  ? 
Where  is  another  chaos  ?   Where  ?"  That  word 
Found  way  unto  Olympus,  and  made  quake 
The  rebel  three.     Thea  was  startled  up. 
And  in  her  bearing  was  a  sort  of  hope, 
As  thus  she  quick-voiced  spake,  yet  full  of  awe. 

"  This  cheers  our  fallen  house  :  come  to  our  friends, 

0  Saturn  !  come  away,  and  give  them  heart ; 

1  know  the  covert,  for  thence  came  I  hither." 

PART  rr.  4 


50  HYPERION.  [book  r. 

Thus  brief;  then  with  beseeching  eyes  she  went 
With  backward  footing  through  the  shade  a  space : 
He  foUow'd,  and  she  turn'd  to  lead  the  way 
Through  aged  boughs,  that  yielded  like  the  mist 
Which  eagles  cleave,  upmounting  from  their  nest. 

Meanwhile  in  other  realms  big  tears  were  shed, 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like  wo, 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of  scribe  : 
The  Titans  fierce,  self-hid,  or  prison-bound, 
Groan 'd  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more, 
And  listen'd  in  sharp  pain  for  Saturn's  voice. 
But  one  of  the  whole  mammoth-brood  still  kept 
His  sovereignty,  and  rule,  and  majesty  ; 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
Still  sat,  still  snuff'd  the  incense,  teeming  up 
From  man  to  the  sun's  God,  yet  unsecure : 
For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear 
Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shudder'd  he. 
Not  at  dog's  howl,  or  gloom-bird's  hated  screech, 
Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one 
Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing-bell, 
Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp  ; 
But  horrors,  portion'd  to  a  giant  nerve. 
Oft  made  Hyperion  ache.     His  palace  bright, 
Bastion'd  cath  pyramids  of  glowing  gold. 
And  touch'd  \vnh  shade  of  bronzed  obelisks, 
Glared  a  blood-red  through  all  its  tliousand  courts. 
Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries ; 
And  all  its  curtains  of  Auronan  clouds 
Flush'd  angerly  :  while  sometimes  eagles'  wings. 
Unseen  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 
Darken'd  the  place  :  and  neighing  steeds  were  heard. 


BOOK  i]  HYPERION.  51 

Not  heard  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men. 

Also,  when  he  would  taste  tlie  spicy  wreaths 

Of  incense,  breathed  aloft  from  sacred  hills, 

Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  took 

Savor  of  poisonous  brass  and  metal  sick  : 

And  so,  when  harbor'd  in  the  sleepy  west, 

After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day. 

For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch. 

And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody. 

He  paced  away  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease 

VVith  stride  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall ; 

While  far  within  each  aisle  and  deep  recess, 

His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stood, 

Amazed  and  full  of  fear  ;  like  anxious  men 

Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting  troops. 

When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements  and  towers. 

Even  now,  while  Saturn,  roused  from  icy  trance, 

Went  step  for  step  with  Thea  through  the  woods, 

Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear. 

Came  slope  upon  the  threshold  of  the  west ; 

Then,  as  was  wont,  his  palace-door  flew  ope 

In  smoothed  silence,  save  what  solemn  tubes, 

Blown  by  the  serious  Zephyrs,  gave  of  sweet 

And  wandering  sounds,  slow-breathed  melodies ; 

And  like  a  rose  in  vermeil  tint  and  shape, 

In  fragrance  soft,  and  coolness  to  the  eye. 

That  inlet  to  severe  magnificence 

Stood  full  blown,  for  the  God  to  enter  in. 

He  enter'd,  but  he  enter'd  full  of  wrath ; 
His  flaming  robes  stream'd  out  beyond  his  heels. 
And  gave  a  roar,  as  if  of  earthly  fire. 
That  scared  away  the  meek  ethereal  Hours 


52  HYPERION.  [book  i. 

And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble.     On  he  flared, 
From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to  vault. 
Through  bowers  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed  light, 
And  diamond-pavod  lustrous  long  arcades. 
Until  he  reach'd  the  great  main  cupola  ; 
There  standing  fierce  beneath,  he  stampt  his  foot, 
And  from  the  basements  deep  to  the  high  towers 
Jarr'd  his  own  golden  region  ;  and  before 
The  quavering  thunder  thereupon  had  ceased, 
His  voice  leapt  out,  despite  of  godlike  curb. 
To  this  result :  "  O  dreams  of  day  and  night ! 
O  monstrous  forms  !  O  effigies  of  pain  ! 
O  spectres  busy  in  a  cold,  cold  gloom ! 

0  lank-ear'd  Phantoms  of  black- weeded  pools ! 
Why  do  I  know  ye  ?  why  have  I  seen  ye  ?  why 
Is  my  eternal  essence  thus  distraught 

To  see  and  to  behold  these  horrors  new  ? 
Saturn  is  fallen,  am  I  too  to  fall  ? 
Am  I  to  leave  this  haven  of  my  rest, 
This  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  clime, 
This  calm  luxuriance  of  blissful  light. 
These  crystalline  pavilions,  and  pure  fanes, 
Of  all  my  lucent  empire  ?     It  is  left 
Deserted,  void,  nor  any  haunt  of  mine. 
The  blaze,  the  splendor,  and  the  symmetry, 

1  cannot  see — but  darkness,  death  and  darkness. 
Even  here,  into  my  centre  of  repose. 

The  shady  visions  come  to  domineer. 

Insult,  and  blind,  and  stifle  up  my  pomp — 

Fall ! — No,  by  Tell  us  and  her  briny  robes  ! 

Over  the  fiery  frontier  of  my  realms 

I  will  advance  a  terrible  right  arm 

Shall  scare  that  infant  thunderer,  rebel  Jove, 


BOOK  I.]  HYPERION.  53 


And  bid  old  Saturn  take  his  throne  again." 

He  spake,  and  ceased,  the  while  a  heavier  threat 

Held  struggle  with  his  throat,  but  came  not  forth ; 

For  as  in  theatres  of  crowded  men 

Hubbub  increases  more  they  call  out  "  Hush !" 

So  at  Hyperion's  words  the  Phantoms  pale 

Bestirr'd  themselves,  thrice  horrible  and  cold ; 

And  from  the  mirror'd  level  where  he  stood 

A  mist  arose,  as  from  a  scummy  marsh. 

At  this,  through  all  his  bulk  an  agony 

Crept  gradual,  from  the  feet  unto  the  crown, 

Like  a  lithe  serpent  vast  and  muscular 

Making  slow  way,  with  head  and  neck  convulsed 

From  over-strained  might.     Released,  he  /led 

To  the  eastern  gates,  and  full  six  dewy  hours 

Before  the  dawn  in  season  due  should  blush, 

He  breathed  fierce  breath  against  the  sleepy  portals, 

Clear'd  them  of  heavy  vapors,  burst  them  wide 

Suddenly  on  the  ocean's  chilly  streams. 

The  planet  orb  of  fire,  whereon  he  rode 

Each  day  from  east  to  west  the  heavens  through, 

Spun  round  in  sable  curtaining  of  clouds  ; 

Not  therefore  veiled  quite,  blindfold,  and  hid. 

But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres, 

Circles,  and  arcs,  and  broad-belting  colure, 

Glow'd  through,  and  wrought  upon  the  muffling  dark 

Sweet-shaped  lightnings  from  the  nadir  deep 

Up  to  the  zenith — hieroglyphics  old. 

Which  sages  and  keen-eyed  astrologers 

Then  living  on  the  earth,  with  laboring  thought 

Won  from  the  gaze  of  many  centuries : 

Now  lost,  save  what  we  find  on  remnants  huge 

Of  stone,  or  marble  swart ;  their  import  gone, 


54  HYPERION.  [book  i. 

Their  wisdom  long  since  fled.     Two  wings  this  orb 

Possess'd  for  glory,  two  fair  argent  wings, 

Ever  exalted  at  the  God's  approach  : 

And  now,  from  forth  the  gloom  their  plumes  immense 

Rose,  one  by  one,  till  all  outspreaded  were  ; 

While  still  the  dazzling  globe  maintain'd  eclipse, 

Awaiting  for  Hyperion's  command. 

Fain  would  he  have  commanded,  fain  took  throne 

And  bid  the  day  begin,  if  but  for  change. 

He  might  not : — No,  though  a  primeval  God : 

The  sacred  seasons  might  not  be  disturb'd. 

Therefore  the  operations  of  the  dawn 

Stay'd  in  their  birth,  even  as  here  't  is  told. 

Those  silver  wings  expanded  sisterly. 

Eager  to  sail  their  orb ;  the  porches  wide 

Open'd  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night ; 

And  the  bright  Titan,  frenzied  with  new  woes. 

Unused  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent 

His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time ; 

And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds. 

Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night. 

He  stretch'd  himself  in  grief  and  radiance  faint. 

There  as  he  lay,  the  Heaven  with  its  stars 

Look'd  down  on  him  with  pity,  and  the  voice 

Of  Coelus,  from  the  universal  space. 

Thus  whisper'd  low  and  solemn  in  his  ear. 

"  O  brightest  of  my  children  dear,  earth-born 

And  sky-engender'd,  Son  of  Mysteries  ! 

All  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 

Which  met  at  thy  creating !  at  whose  joys 

And  palpitations  sweet,  and  pleasures  soft, 

I,  Coelus,  wonder  how  they  came  and  whence ; 

And  at  the  fruits  thereof  what  shapes  they  be, 


BOOK  I.]  HYPERION.  55 


Distinct,  and  visible  ;  synnbols  divine, 

Manifestations  of  that  beauteous  life 

Diffused  unseen  throughout  eternal  space  ; 

Of  these  nevv-form'd  art  thou,  oh  brightest  child ! 

Of  those,  thy  brethren  and  the  Goddesses! 

There  is  sad  feud  among  ye,  and  rebellion 

Of  son  against  his  sire.     I  saw  him  fall, 

I  saw  my  firstborn  tumbled  from  his  throne ! 

To  me  his  arms  were  spread,  to  me  his  voice 

Found  way  from  forth  the  thunders  round  his  head ! 

Pale  wox  I,  and  in  vapors  hid  my  face. 

Art  thou,  too,  near  such  doom  ?  vague  fear  there  is : 

For  I  have  seen  my  sons  most  unlike  Gods. 

Divine  ye  were  created,  and  divine 

In  sad  demeanor,  solemn,  undisturb'd, 

Unruffled,  like  high  Gods,  ye  lived  and  ruled : 

Now  I  behold  in  you  fear,  hope,  and  wrath ; 

Actions  of  rage  and  passion  ;  even  as 

I  see  them,  on  the  mortal  world  beneath, 

In  men  who  die. — This  is  the  grief,  O  Son ! 

Sad  sign  of  ruin,  sudden  dismay,  and  fall ! 

Yet  do  thou  strive  ;  as  thou  art  capable, 

As  thou  canst  move  about,  an  evident  God, 

And  canst  oppose  to  each  malignant  hour 

Ethereal  presence  : — I  am  but  a  voice  : 

My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides, 

No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I  avail : — 

But  thou  canst. — Be  thou  therefore  in  the  van 

Of  circumstance  ;  yea,  seize  the  arrow's  barb 

Before  the  tense  string  murmur. — To  the  earth  ! 

For  there  thou  wilt  find  Saturn,  and  his  woes. 

Meantime  I  will  keep  watch  on  thy  bright  sun. 

And  of  thv  seasons  be  a  careful  nurse.'"' — 


56  HYPERION.  [book  i. 

Ere  half  this  region-whisper  had  come  down 
Hyperion  arose,  and  on  the  stars 
Lifted  his  curved  lids,  and  kept  them  wide 
Until  it  ceased  ;  and  still  he  kept  them  wide  : 
And  still  they  were  the  same  bright,  patient  stars. 
Then  with  a  slow  incline  of  his  broad  breast, 
Like  to  a  diver  in  the  pearly  seas, 
Forward  he  stoop'd  over  the  airy  shore, 
And  plunged  all  noiseless  into  the  deep  night. 


BOOK  II.]  HYPERION.  57 


BOOK    II 


Just  at  the  self-same  beat  of  Time's  wide  wings 
Hyperion  slid  into  the  rustled  air, 
And  Saturn  gain'd  with  Thea  that  sad  place 
Where  Cybele  and  the  bruised  Titans  mourn'd. 
It  was  a  den  where  no  insulting  light 
Could  glimmer  on  their  tears ;  where  their  own  groans 
They  felt,  but  heard  not,  for  the  solid  roar 
Of  thunderous  waterfalls  and  torrents  hoarse, 
Pouring  a  constant  bulk,  uncertain  where. 
Crag  jutting  forth  to  crag,  and  rocks  that  seem'd 
Ever  as  if  just  rising  from  a  sleep, 
Forehead  to  forehead  held  their  monstrous  horns  ; 
And  thus  in  thousand  hugest  phantasies 
Made  a  fit  roofing  to  this  nest  of  wo. 
Instead  of  thrones,  hard  flint  they  sat  upon, 
Couches  of  rugged  stone,  and  slaty  ridge 
Stubborn'd  with  iron.     All  were  not  assembled  : 
Some  chain'd  in  torture,  and  some  wandering. 
CoBUs,  and  Gyges,  and  Briareiis, 
Typhon,  and  Dolor,  and  Porphyrion, 
With  many  more,  the  brawniest  in  assault. 
Were  pent  in  regions  of  laborious  breath  ; 
Dungeon'd  in  opaque  element  to  keep 
Their  clenched  teeth  still  clench'd,  and  all  their  limbs 
Lock'd  up  like  veins  of  metal,  cramp'd  and  screw'd  ; 
4* 


5S  HYPERION.  [book  ii. 


Without  a  motion;  save  of  their  big  hearts 

Heaving  in  pain,  and  horribly  convulsed 

With  sanguine,  feverous,  boiling  gurge  of  pulse. 

Mnemosyne  was  straying  in  the  world  ; 

Far  from  her  moon  had  Phoebe  wander'd  ; 

And  many  else  were  free  to  roam  abroad, 

But  for  the  main,  here  found  they  covert  drear. 

Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there. 

Lay  vast  and  edgeways  ;  like  a  dismal  cirque 

Of  Druid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor, 

When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve, 

In  dull  November,  and  their  chancel  vault, 

The  heaven  itself,  is  blinded  throughout  night. 

Each  one  kept  shroud,  nor  to  his  neighbor  gave 

Or  word  or  look,  or  action  of  despair. 

Creiis  was  one  ;  his  ponderous  iron  mace 

Lay  by  him,  and  a  shatter'd  rib  of  rock 

Told  of  his  rage,  ere  he  thus  sank  and  pined. 

lapetus  another  ;  in  his  grasp, 

A  serpent's  plashy  neck  ;  its  barbed  tongue 

Squeezed  from  the  gorge,  and  all  its  uncurl'd  length 

Dead ;  and  because  the  creature  could  not  spit 

Its  poison  in  the  eyes  of  conquering  Jove. 

Next  Cottus  :  prone  he  lay,  chin  uppermost, 

As  though  in  pain ;  for  still  upon  the  flint 

He  ground  severe  his  skull,  with  open  mouth 

And  eyes  at  horrid  working.     Nearest  him 

Asia,  born  of  most  enormous  Caf, 

Who  cost  her  mother  Tellus  keener  pangs. 

Though  feminine,  than  any  of  her  sons ; 

More  thought  than  wo  was  in  her  dusky  face. 

For  she  was  prophesying  of  her  glory  ; 

And  in  hor  wide  imagination  stood 


BOOK  II.]  HYPERION.  59 

Palm-shaded  temples,  and  high  rival  fanes, 

By  Oxus  or  in  Ganges'  sacred  isles. 

Even  as  Hope  upon  her  anchor  leans, 

So  leant  she,  not  so  fair,  upon  a  tusk 

Shed  from  the  broadest  of  her  elephants. 

Above  her,  on  a  crag's  uneasy  shelve, 

Upon  his  elbow  raised,  all  prostrate  else, 

Shadow'd  Enceladus  ;  once  tame  and  mild 

As  grazing  ox  unworried  in  the  meads ; 

Now  tiger-passion'd,  lion-thoughted,  wroth. 

He  meditated,  plotted,  and  even  now 

Was  hurling  mountains  in  that  second  war. 

Not  long  delay'd,  that  scared  the  younger  Gods 

To  hide  themselves  in  forms  of  beast  and  bird. 

Not  far  hence  Atlas  ;  and  beside  him  prone 

Phorcus,  the  sire  of  Gorgons.     Neighbor'd  close 

Ocean  us,  and  Tethys,  in  whose  lap 

Sobb'd  Clymene  among  her  tangled  hair. 

In  midst  of  all  lay  Themis,  at  the  feet 

Of  Ops  the  queen  all  clouded  round  from  sight ; 

No  shape  distinguishable,  more  than  when 

Thick  night  confounds  the  pine-tops  with  the  clouds: 

And  many  else  whose  names  may  not  be  told. 

For  when  the  muse's  wings  are  air-ward  spread, 

Who  shall  delay  her  flight  ?     And  she  must  chant 

Of  Saturn,  and  his  guide,  who  now  had  climb'd 

With  damp  and  slippery  footing  from  a  depth 

More  horrid  still.     Above  a  sombre  cliff 

Their  heads  appear'd,  and  up  their  stature  grew 

Till  on  the  level  height  their  steps  found  ease  : 

Then  Thea  spread  abroad  her  trembling  arms 

Upon  the  precincts  of  this  nest  of  pain. 

And  sidelong  fix'd  her  eye  on  Saturn's  face  : 


60  HYPERION.  [book  ii. 

There  saw  she  direst  strife  ;  the  supreme  God 
At  war  with  all  the  frailty  of  grief, 
Of  rage,  of  fear,  anxiety,  revenge. 
Remorse,  spleen,  hope,  but  most  of  all  despair. 
Against  these  plagues  he  strove  in  vain  ;   for  Fate 
Had  pour'd  a  mortal  oil  upon  his  head, 
A  disanointing  poison  :  so  that  Thea, 
Affrighted,  kept  her  still,  and  let  him  pass 
First  onwards  in,  among  the  fallen  tribe. 

As  with  us  mortal  men,  the  laden  heart 
Is  persecuted  more,  and  fever'd  more. 
When  it  is  nighing  to  the  mournful  house 
Where  other  hearts  are  sick  of  the  same  bruise ; 
So  Saturn,  as  he  walk'd  into  the  midst 
Felt  faint,  and  would  have  sunk  among  the  rest, 
But  that  he  met  Enceladus's  eye, 
Whose  mightiness,  iand  awe  of  him,  at  once 
Came  like  an  inspiration  ;  and  he  shouted, 
"  Titans,  behold  your  God  !  "  at  which  some  groan'd; 
Some  started  on  their  feet ;  some  also  shouted  ; 
Some  wept,  some  wail'd — all  bow'd  with  reverence  ; 
And  Ops,  uplifting  her  black  folded  veil, 
Show'd  her  pale  cheeks,  and  all  her  forehead  wan, 
Her  eyebrows  thin  and  jet,  and  hollow  eyes. 
There  is  a  roaring  in  the  bleak-grown  pines 
When  Winter  lifts  his  voice  ;  there  is  a  noise 
Among  immortals  when  a  God  gives  sign. 
With  hushing  finger,  how  he  means  to  load 
His  tongue  with  the  full  weight  of  utterless  thought, 
With  thunder,  and  with  music,  and  with  pomp  : 
Such  noise  is  like  the  roar  of  bleak-grown  pines ; 
Which,  when  it  ceases  in  this  mountain'd  world, 
No  other  sound  succeeds ;  but  ceasing  here, 


BOOK  II.]  HYPERION.  61 


Among  these  fallen,  Saturn's  voice  therefrom 

Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 

Its  strain,  when  other  harmonies,  stopt  short, 

Leave  the  dinn'd  air  vibrating  silverly. 

Thus  grew  it  up — "  Not  in  my  own  sad  breast, 

Which  is  its  own  great  judge  and  searcher  out, 

Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus : 

Not  in  the  legends  of  the  first  of  days. 

Studied  from  that  old  spirit-leaved  book 

Which  starry  Uranus  with  finger  bright 

Saved  from  the  shores  of  darkness,  when  the  waves 

Low-ebb'd  still  hid  it  up  in  shallow  gloom  ; 

And  the  which  book  ye  know  I  ever  kept 

For  my  firm-based  footstool : — Ah,  infirm  ! 

Not  there,  nor  in  sign,  symbol,  or  portent 

Of  element,  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire, — 

At  war,  at  peace,  or  inter-quarrelling 

One  against  one,  or  two,  or  three,  or  all 

Each  several  one  against  the  other  three, 

As  fire  with  air  loud  warring  when  rain-floods 

Drown  both,  and  press  them  both  against  earth's  face. 

Where,  finding  sulphur,  a  quadruple  wrath 

Unhinges  the  poor  world  ; — not  in  that  strife, 

Wherefrom  I  take  strange  lore,  and  read  it  deep, 

Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus : 

No,  nowhere  can  unriddle,  though  I  search, 

And  pore  on  Nature's  universal  scroll 

Even  to  swooning,  why  ye,  Divinities, 

The  first-born  of  all  shaped  and  palpable  Gods, 

Should  cower  beneath  what,  in  comparison. 

Is  untremendous  might.     Yet  ye  are  here, 

O'erwhelm'd,  and  spurn'd,  and  batter'd,  ye  are  here  ! 

O  TitanS;  shall  I  say  '  Arise  ! ' — Ye  groan  : 


62  HYPERION.  [book  ii. 


Shall  I  say  '  Crouch  ! ' — Ye  groan.     What  can  I  then  ? 
O  Heaven  wide  !     O  unseen  parent  dear  ! 
What  can  I  ?     Tell  me,  all  ye  brethren  Gods, 
How  we  can  war,  how  engine  our  great  wrath  ! 

0  speak  your  counsel  now,  for  Saturn's  ear 
Is  all  a-hunger'd.     Thou,  Oceanus, 
Ponderest  high  and  deep ;  and  in  thy  face 

1  see.  astonied,  that  severe  content 

Which  comes  of  thought  and  musing:  give  us  help  !" 

So  ended  Saturn ;  and  the  God  of  the  Sea, 
Sophist  and  sage,  from  no  Athenian  grove, 
But  cogitation  in  his  watery  shades, 
Arose,  with  locks  not  oozy,  and  began, 
In  murmurs,  which  his  first  endeavoring  tongue 
Caught  infant-like  from  the  far-foam'd  sands. 
"  O  ye,  whom  wrath  consumes  !  who,  passion-stung. 
Writhe  at  defeat,  and  nurse  your  agonies  ! 
Shut  up  your  senses,  stifle  up  your  ears, 
My  voice  is  not  a  bellows  unto  ire. 
Yet  listen,  ye  who  will,  whilst  I  bring  proof 
How  ye,  perforce,  must  be  content  to  stoop : 
And  in  the  proof  much  comfort  will  I  give, 
If  ye  will  take  that  comfort  in  its  truth. 
We  fall  by  course  of  Nature's  law,  not  force 
Of  thunder,  or  of  Jove.     Great  Saturn,  thou 
Hast  sifted  well  the  atom-universe  : 
But  for  this  reason,  tliat  thou  art  the  King, 
And  only  blind  from  sheer  supremacy, 
One  avenue  was  shaded  from  thine  eyes, 
Through  which  I  wander'd  to  eternal  truth. 
And  first,  as  thou  wast  not  the  first  of  powers, 
So  art  thou  not  the  last  ;  it  cannot  be. 
Thou  art  not  the  beginning  nor  the  end. 


L-ooK  II.]  HYPERION.  63 


From  chaos  and  parental  darkne^  came 

Light,  the  first  fruits  of  that  intestine  broil, 

That  sullen  ferment,  which  for  wondrous  ends 

Was  ripening  in  itself.     The  ripe  hour  came, 

And  with  it  light,  and  light  engendering 

Upon  its  own  producer,  forthwith  touch'd 

The  whole  enormous  matter  into  life. 

Upon  that  very  hour,  our  parentage. 

The  Heavens  and  the  Earth,  were  manifest : 

Then  thou  first-born,  and  we  the  giant-race, 

Found  ourselves  ruling  new  and  beauteous  realms. 

Now  comes  the  pain  of  truth,  to  whom  't  is  pain  ; 

O  folly  !  for  to  bear  all  naked  truths, 

And  to  envisage  circumstance,  all  calm. 

That  is  the  top  of  sovereignty.     Mark  well ! 

As  Heaven  and  Earth  are  fairer,  fairer  far 

Than  Chaos  and  blank  Darkness,  though  once  chiefs ; 

And  as  we  show  beyond  that  Heaven  and  Earth 

In  form  and  shape  compact  and  beautiful. 

In  will,  in  action  free,  companionship. 

And  thousand  other  signs  of  purer  life ; 

So  on  our  heels  a  fresh  perfection  treads, 

A  power  more  strong  in  beauty,  born  of  us 

And  fated  to  excel  us,  as  we  pass 

In  glory  that  old  Darkness  :  nor  are  we 

Thereby  more  conquer'd  than  by  us  the  rule 

Of  shapeless  Chaos.     Say,  doth  the  dull  soil 

Quarrel  with  the  proud  forests  it  hath  fed. 

And  feedeth  still,  more  comely  than  itself? 

Can  it  deny  the  chiefdom  of  green  groves  ? 

Or  shall  the  tree  be  envious  of  the  dove 

Because  it  cooeth,  and  hath  snowy  wings 

To  wander  wherewithal  and  find  its  joys  ? 


64  HYPERION. 


We  are  such  forest-frees,  and  our  fair  boughs 
Have  bred  forth,  not  pale  solitary  doves. 
But  eagles  golden-feather'd,  who  do  tower 
Above  us  in  their  beauty,  and  must  reign 
In  right  thereof;  for  't  is  the  eternal  law 
That  first  in  beauty  should  be  first  in  might : 
Yea,  by  that  law,  another  race  may  drive 
Our  conquerors  to  mourn  as  we  do  now. 
Have  ye  beheld  the  young  God  of  the  Seas, 
My  dispossessor  ?     Have  ye  seen  his  face  ? 
Have  ye  beheld  his  chariot,  foam'd  along 
By  noble  winged  creatures  he  hath  made  ? 
I  saw  him  on  the  calmed  waters  scud. 
With  such  a  glow  of  beauty  in  his  eyes, 
That  it  enforced  me  to  bid  sad  farewell 
To  all  my  empire :  farewell  sad  I  took, 
And  hither  came,  to  see  how  dolorous  fate 
Had  wrought  upon  ye :  and  how  I  might  best 
Give  consolation  in  this  wo  extreme. 
Receive  the  truth,  and  let  it  be  your  balm." 

Whether  through  pozed  conviction,  or  disdain, 
They  guarded  silence,  when  Oceanus 
Left  murmuring,  what  deepest  thought  can  tell  ? 
But  so  it  was,  none  answer 'd  for  a  space, 
Save  one  whom  none  regarded,  Clymene  : 
And  yet  she  answer'd  not,  only  complain'd, 
With  hectic  lips,  and  eyes  up-looking  mild, 
Thus  wording  timidly  among  the  fierce  : 
"  O  Father  !  I  am  here  the  simplest  voice, 
And  all  my  knowledge  is  that  joy  is  gone. 
And  this  thing  wo  crept  in  among  our  hearts, 
There  to  remain  for  ever,  as  I  fear : 
I  would  not  bode  of  evil,  if  I  thought 


BOOK  It.]  HYPERION.  65 

So  weak  a  creature  could  turn  off  the  help 

Which  by  just  right  should  come  of  mighty  Gods  ; 

Yet  let  me  tell  my  sorrow,  let  me  tell 

Of  what  I  heard,  and  how  it  made  me  weep, 

And  know  that  we  had  parted  from  all  hope. 

I  stood  upon  a  shore,  a  pleasant  shore. 

Where  a  sweet  clime  was  breathed  from  a  land 

Of  fragrance,  quietness,  and  trees,  and  flowers. 

Full  of  calm  joy  it  was,  as  I  of  grief;  -^ 

Too  full  of  joy  and  soft  delicious  warmth  ; 

So  that  I  felt  a  movement  in  my  heart 

To  chide,  and  to  reproach  that  solitude 

With  songs  of  misery,  music  of  our  woes  ; 

And  sat  me  down,  and  took  a  mouthed  shell 

And  murmur'd  into  it,  and  made  melody — 

0  melody  no  more  !  for  while  I  sang, 
And  with  poor  skill  let  pass  into  the  breeze 
The  dull  shell's  echo,  from  a  bowery  strand 
Just  opposite,  an  island  of  the  sea, 

There  came  enchantment  with  the  shifting  wind, 
That  did  both  drown  and  keep  alive  my  ears. 

1  threw  my  shell  away  upon  the  sand, 
And  a  wave  fiU'd  it,  as  my  sense  was  fiU'd 
With  that  new  blissful  golden  melody. 

A  living  death  was  in  each  gush  of  sounds, 

Each  family  of  rapturous  hurried  notes. 

That  fell,  one  after  one,  yet  all  at  once, 

Like  pearl  beads  dropping  sudden  from  their  string: 

And  then  another,  then  another  strain, 

Each  like  a  dove  leaving  its  olive  perch. 

With  music  wing'd  instead  of  silent  plumes, 

To  hover  round  my  head,  and  make  me  siok 

Of  joy  and  grief  at  once.     Grief  overcame, 


60  HYPERION. 


And  I  was  stopping  up  my  frantic  ears, 
When,  past  all  hindrance  of  my  trembling  hands, 
A  voice  came  sweeter,  sweeter  than  all  tune, 
And  still  it  cried, '  Apollo  !  young  Apollo  ! 
The  morning-bright  Apollo  !  young  Apollo  !' 
I  fled,  it  follow'd  me,  and  cried  '  Apollo  !' 
O  Father,  and  O  Brethren  !    had  ye  felt 
Those  pains  of  mine  !     O  Saturn,  hadst  thou  felt 
Ye  would  not  call  this  too  indulged  tongue 
Presumptuous,  in  thus  venturing  to  be  heard  !" 

So  far  her  voice  flow'd  on,  like  timorous  brook 
That,  lingering  along  a  pebbled  coast, 
Doth  fear  to  meet  the  sea :  but  sea  it  met, 
And  shudder 'd  ;  for  the  overwhelming  voice 
Of  huge  Enceladus  swallow'd  it  in  wrath  : 
The  ponderous  syllables,  like  sullen  waves 
In  the  half-glutted  hollows  of  reef-rocks, 
Came  booming  thus,  while  still  upon  his  arm 
He  lean'd  ;  not  rising,  from  supreme  contempt. 
"  Or  shall  we  listen  to  the  over-wise. 
Or  to  the  over-foolish  giant,  Gods  ? 
Not  thunderbolt  on  thunderbolt,  till  all 
That  rebel  Jove's  whole  armory  were  spent, 
Not  world  on  world  upon  these  shoulders  piled, 
Could  agonize  me  more  than  baby-words 
In  midst  of  this  dethronement  horrible. 
Speak  !  roar  !  shout!  yell  !  ye  sleepy  Titans  all. 
Do  ye  forget  the  blows,  the  buffets  vile  ? 
Are  ye  not  smitten  by  a  youngling  arm  ? 
Dost  thou  forget,  sham  Monarch  of  the  Waves, 
Thy  scalding  in  the  seas  ?     What !  have  I  roused 
Your  spleens  with  so  few  simple  words  as  these  ? 
O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  ye  are  not  lost : 


BOOK  II.]  HYPERION.  67 

O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  a  thousand  eyes 

Wide  glaring  for  revenge." — As  this  he  said, 

He  lifted  up  his  stature  vast,  and  stood, 

Still  without  intermission  speaking  thus  : 

"  Now  ye  are  flames,  I'll  tell  you  how  to  burn, 

And  purge  the  ether  of  our  enemies ; 

How  to  feed  fierce  the  crooked  stings  of  fire. 

And  singe  away  the  swollen  clouds  of  Jove, 

Stifling  that  puny  essence  in  its  tent. 

O  let  him  feel  the  evil  he  hath  done  ; 

For  though  I  scorn  Oceanus's  lore, 

Much  pain  have  I  for  more  than  loss  of  realms  : 

The  days  of  peace  and  slumberous  calm  are  fled  j 

Those  days,  all  innocent  of  scathing  war. 

When  all  the  fair  Existences  of  heaven 

Came  open-eyed  to  guess  what  we  would  speak : — 

That  was  before  our  brows  were  taught  to  frown, 

Before  our  lips  knew  else  but  solemn  sounds ; 

That  was  before  we  knew  the  winged  thing, 

Victory,  might  be  lost,  or  might  be  won. 

And  be  ye  mindful  that  Hyperion, 

Our  brightest  brother,  still  is  undisgraced — 

Hyperion,  lo !  his  radiance  is  here  !" 

All  eyes  were  on  Enceladus's  face. 
And  they  beheld,  while  still  Hyperion's  name 
Flew  from  his  lips  up  to  the  vaulted  rocks, 
A  pallid  gleam  across  his  features  stern  ; 
Not  savage,  for  he  saw  full  many  a  God 
Wroth  as  himself.     He  look'd  upon  them  all. 
And  in  each  face  he  saw  a  gleam  of  light, 
But  splendider  in  Saturn's,  whose  hoar  locks 
Shone  like  the  bubbling  foam  about  a  keel 


68  HYPERION.  [book  ii. 

When  the  prow  sweeps  into  a  midnight  cove. 

In  pale  and  silver  silence  they  remain'd, 

Till  suddenly  a  splendor,  like  the  morn, 

Pervaded  all  the  beetling  gloomy  steeps, 

All  the  sad  spaces  of  oblivion, 

And  every  gulf,  and  every  chasm  old, 

And  every  height,  and  every  sullen  depth. 

Voiceless,  or  hoarse  with  loud  tormented  streams : 

And  all  the  everlasting  cataracts, 

And  all  the  headlong  torrents  far  and  near, 

Mantled  before  in  darkness  and  huge  shade, 

Now  saw  the  light  and  made  it  terrible. 

It  was  Hyperion  : — a  granite  peak 

His  bright  feet  touch'd,  and  there  he  stay'd  to  view 

The  misery  his  brilliance  had  betray'd 

To  the  most  hateful  seeing  of  itself. 

Golden  his  hair  of  short  Numidian  curl, 

Regal  his  shape  majestic,  a  vast  shade 

In  midst  of  his  own  brightness,  like  the  bulk 

Of  Memnon's  image  at  the  set  of  sun 

To  one  who  travels  from  the  dusking  East : 

Sighs,  too,  as  mournful  as  that  Memnon's  harp, 

He  utter'd,  while  his  hands,  contemplative, 

He  press'd  together,  and  in  silence  stood. 

Despondence  seized  again  the  fallen  Gods 

At  sight  of  the  dejected  King  of  Day, 

And  many  hid  their  faces  from  the  light : 

But  fierce  Enceladus  sent  forth  his  eyes 

Among  the  brotherhood  ;  and,  at  their  glare, 

Uprose  lapetus,  and  Creiis  too, 

And  Phorcus,  sea-born,  and  together  strode 

To  where  he  tower'd  on  his  eminence. 


BOOK  II.]  HYPERION.  69 

There  those  four  shouted  forth  old  Saturn's  name  ; 

Hyperion  from  the  peak  loud  answer 'd  "  Saturn  !" 

Saturn  sat  near  the  Mother  of  the  Gods, 

In  whose  face  was  no  joy,  though  all  the  Gods 

Gave  from  their  hollow  throats  the  name  of  "  Saturn  !" 


70  HYPERION.  [book  hi. 


BOOK    III. 


Thus  in  alternate  uproar  and  sad  peace, 

Amazed  were  those  Titans  utterly. 

O  leave  them,  Muse  !     O  leave  them  to  their  woes  ! 

For  thou  art  weak  to  sing  such  tumults  dire : 

A  solitary  sorrow  best  befits 

Thy  lips,  and  antheming  a  lonely  grief. 

Leave  them,  O  Muse  !  for  thou  anon  wilt  find 

Many  a  fallen  old  Divinity 

Wandering  in  vain  about  bewilder'd  shores. 

Meantime  touch  piously  the  Delphic  harp, 

And  not  a  wind  of  heaven  but  will  breathe 

In  aid  soft  warble  from  the  Dorian  flute  ; 

For  lo  !  't  is  for  the  Father  of  all  verse. 

Flush  everything  that  hath  a  vermeil  hue, 

Let  the  rose  glow  intense  and  warm  the  air, 

And  let  the  clouds  of  even  and  of  morn 

Float  in  voluptuous  fleeces  o'er  the  hills  ; 

Let  the  red  wine  within  the  goblet  boil, 

Cold  as  a  bubbling  well ;  let  faint-lipp'd  shells, 

On  sands,  or  in  great  deeps,  vermilion  turn 

Through  all  their  labyrinths ;  and  let  the  maid 

Blush  keenly,  as  with  some  warm  kiss  surprised. 

Chief  isle  of  the  embowered  Cyclades, 

Rejoice,  O  Pelos,  with  thine  olives  green, 


BOOK  III.]  HYPERION.  71 


And  poplars,  and  lawn-shading  palms,  and  beech, 

In  which  the  Zephyr  breathes  the  loudest  song. 

And  hazels  thick,  dark  steinm'd  beneath  the  shade : 

Apollo  is  once  more  the  golden  theme ! 

Where  was  he,  when  the  Giant  of  the  Sun 

Stood  bright,  amid  the  sorrow  of  his  peers  ? 

Together  had  he  left  his  mother  fair 

And  his  twin-sister  sleeping  in  their  bower, 

And  in  the  morning  twilight  wander'd  forth 

Beside  the  osiers  of  a  rivulet. 

Full  ankle-deep  in  lilies  of  the  vale. 

The  nightingale  had  ceased,  and  a  few  stars 

AVere  lingering  in  the  heavenS;,  while  the  thrush 

Began  calm-throated.     Throughout  all  the  isle 

There  was  no  covert,  no  retired  cave 

Unhaunted  by  the  murmurous  noise  of  waves. 

Though  scarcely  heard  in  many  a  green  recess. 

He  listen'd,  and  he  wept,  and  his  bright  tears 

Went  trickling  down  the  golden  bow  he  held. 

Thus  with  half-shut  suffused  eyes  he  stood, 

While  from  beneath  some  cumbrous  boughs  hard  by 

With  solemn  step  an  awful  Goddess  came. 

And  there  was  purport  in  her  looks  for  him, 

Which  he  with  eager  guess  began  to  read 

Perplex'd,  the  while  melodiously  he  said  : 

"  How  camest  thou  over  the  unfooted  sea  ? 

Or  hath  that  antique  mien  and  robed  form 

Moved  in  these  vales  invisible  till  now  ? 

Sure  I  have  heard  those  vestments  sweeping  o'er 

The  fallen  leaves,  when  I  have  sat  alone 

In  cool  mid  forest.     Surely  I  have  traced 

The  rustle  of  those  ample  skirts  about 

These  grassy  solitudes,  and  seen  the  flowers 


72  HYPERION.  [book  m. 

Lift  uprtheir  heads,  as  still  the  whisper  pass'd. 

Goddess !     I  have  beheld  those  eyes  before, 

And  their  eternal  calm,  and  all  that  face, 

Or  I  havedream'd." — "  Yes,"  said  the  supreme  shape, 

"  Thou  hast  dream'd  of  me  ;  and  awaking  up 

Didst  find  a  lyre  all  golden  by  thy  side, 

Whose  strings  touch'd  by  thy  fingers,  all  the  vast 

Unwearied  ear  of  the  whole  universe 

Listen'd  in  pain  and  pleasure  at  the  birth 

Of  such  new  tuneful  wonder.     Is  't  not  strange 

That  thou  should'st  weep,  so  gifted  ?     Tell  me,  youth, 

What  sorrow  thou  canst  feel :  for  I  am  sad 

When  thou  dost  shed  a  tear :  explain  thy  griefs 

To  one  who  in  this  lonely  isle  hath  been 

The  watcher  of  thy  sleep  and  hours  of  life, 

From  the  young  day  when  first  thy  infant  hand 

Pluck'd  witless  the  weak  flowers,  till  thine  arm 

Could  bend  that  bow  heroic  to  all  times. 

Show  thy  heart's  secret  to  an  ancient  Power 

Who  hath  forsaken  old  and  sacred  thrones 

For  prophecies  of  thee,  and  for  the  sake 

Of  loveliness  new-born." — Apollo  then. 

With  sudden  scrutiny  and  gloomless  eyes. 

Thus  answer'd,  while  his  white  melodious  throat 

Throbb'd  with  the  syllables  ; — "  Mnemosyne  ! 

Thy  name  is  on  my  tongue,  I  know  not  how  ; 

Why  should  I  tell  thee  what  thou  so  well  seest  ? 

Why  should  I  strive  to  show  what  from  thy  lips 

Would  come  no  mystery  ?     For  me,  dark,  dark, 

And  painful  vile  oblivion  seals  my  eyes  : 

I  strive  to  search  wherefore  I  am  so  sad, 

Until  a  melancholy  numbs  my  limbs  j 

And  then  upon  the  grass  I  sit,  and  moan. 


BOOK  III.]  HYPERION.  73 

Like  one"  who  once  had  wings. — O  wliy  should* 

Feel  cursed  and  thwarted,  when  the  liegeless  air 

Yields  to  my  step  aspirant  ?  why  should  I 

Spurn  the  green  turf  as  hateful  to  my  feet  ? 

Goddess  benign  !  point  forth  some  unknown  thing  : 

Are  there  not  other  regions  than  this  isle  ? 

What  are  the  stars  ?     Thei'e  is  the  sun,  the  sun  ! 

And  the  most  patient  brilliance  of  tlie  moon  ! 

And  stars  by  thousands !     Point  me  out  tiie  way 

To  any  one  particular  beauteous  star, 

And  I  will  flit  into  it  with  my  lyre, 

And  make  its  silvAy  splendor  pant  witli  bliss. 

I  have  heard  the  cloudy  thunder :  Where  is  power  ? 

W^hose  hand,  whose  essence,  wliat  divinity 

Makes  this  alarm  in  the  elements, 

While  I  here  idle  listen  on  the  shores 

In  I'eai'less  yet  in  aching  ignorance  ? 

O  tell  me,  lonely  Goddess  !  by  thy  harp, 

That  waileth  every  morn  and  eventide, 

Tell  me  why  thus  I  rave,  about  these  groves ! 

Mute  thou  remainest — Mute  yet  I  can  read 

A  wonc^rous  lesson  in  thy  silent  face  : 

Knowledge  enormous  makes  a  God  of  me. 

Names,  deeds,  grey  legends,  dire  events,  rebellions, 

Majesties,  sovran  voices,  agonies, 

Creations  and  destroyings,  all  at  once 

Pour  into  the  wide  hollows  of  my  brain, 

And  deify  me,  as  if  some  blithe  wine 

Or  bright  elixir  peerless  I  had  drunk, 

And  so  become  immortal." — Thus  the  (iod. 

While  his  enkindled  eyes,  with  level  glance 

Beneath  his  white  soft  temples,  steadfast  kept 

Trembling  with  light  upon  Mnemosyne. 

PART   n.  5 


74  HYPERION.  [book  iv. 

Soon  wiW  commotions  shook  him,  and  made  flush 

All  the  immortal  fairness  of  his  limbs  : 

Most  like  the  struggle  at  the  gate  of  death  ; 

Or  liker  still  to  one  who  should  take  leave 

Of  pale  immortal  death,  and  with  a  pang 

As  hot  as  death's  is  chill,  with  fierce  convulse 

Die  into  life  :  so  young  Apollo  anguish'd ; 

His  very  hair,  his  golden  tresses  famed 

Kept  undulation  round  his  eager  neck. 

During  the  pain  Mnemosyne  upheld 

Her  arms  as  one  who  prophesied. — At  length 

Apollo  shriek'd  ; — and  lo !  from  all  his  limbs 

Celestial  *  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  *  *  <♦ 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


What  more  felicity  can  fall  to  creatine 
Than  to  enjoy  delight  with  liberty  1 

Fate  of  the  Butterfly. Speshbr. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  LEIGH  HUNT,  ESQ. 

Glory  and  Loveliness  have  pass'd  away  ; 

For  if  we  wander  out  in  early  morn, 

No  wreathed  incense  do  we  see  upborne 
Into  the  east  to  meet  the  smiling  day  : 
No  crowd  of  nymphs  soft-voiced  and  young  and  gay, 

In  woven  baskets  bringing  ears  of  corn, 

Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  in  her  early  May. 
But  there  are  left  delights  as  high  as  these. 

And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny. 
That  in  a  time  when  under  pleasant  trees 

Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  I  feel  a  free, 
A  leafy  luxury,  seeing  I  could  please 

With  these  poor  offerings,  a  man  like  thee. 


Places  of  nestling  green  for  poets  made. 

Story  of  Rimini. 

I  STOOD  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill, 

The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still, 

That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  pride 

Pull  droopingly,  in  slanting  curve  aside, 


78  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Their  scanty-leaved,  and  finely- tapering  stems, 

Had  not  yet  lost  their  starry  diadems 

Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  morn. 

The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  flocks  new-shorn, 

And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook  ;  sweetly  they  slept 

On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept 

A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves, 

Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves ; 

For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 

Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  areen. 

There  was  wide  wandering  for  the  greediest  eye, 

To  peer  about  upon  variety ; 

Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim, 

And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim ; 

To  picture  out  the  quaint  and  curious  bending 

Of  a  fresh  woodland-alley  never-ending  : 

Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves. 

Guess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh  themselves. 

I  gazed  awhile,  and  felt  as  light,  and  free 

As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 

Had  play'd  upon  my  heels  :  I  was  light-hearted, 

And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started  ; 

So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posy 

Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft  and  rosy. 

A  bush  of  May-flowers  with  the  bees  about  them  ; 

Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  could  be  without  them  ! 

And  let  a  lush  laburnum  oversweep  them, 

And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots,  to  keep  them 

Moist,  cool  and  green  ;  and  shade  the  violets. 

That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 

A  filbert-hedge  with  wild-briar  overtwined. 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  79 


Upon  their  summer  thrones ;  there  too  should  be 
The  frequent-chequer  of  a  youngling  tree, 
That  with  a  score  of  light  green  brethren  shoots 
From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots  : 
Round  which  is  heard  a  spring-head  of  clear  waters, 
Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters, 
The  spreading  blue-bells :  it  may  haply  mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scatter'd  thoughtlessly 
By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 

Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds, 

Ye  ardent  marigolds ! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids, 

For  great  Apollo  bids 

That  in  these  days  your  praises  should  be  sung 

On  many  harps,  which  he  has  lately  strung ; 

And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses, 

Tell  him,  I  have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses : 

So  haply  when  I  rove  in  some  far  vale. 

His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale. 

Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight : 

With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 

And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things. 

To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings. 

Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 

That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks, 

And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings : 

They  will  be  found  softer  than  ringdoves'  cooings. 

How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend ! 

Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 

To  the  o'erhanging  sallows  :  blades  of  grass 

Slowly  across  the  chequer'd  shadows  pass. 


80  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Why  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 

To  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach 

A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds  ; 

Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads, 

Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams, 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 

Temper'd  with  coolness.     How  they  ever  wrestle 

With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand  ! 

If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand, 

That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain  ; 

But  turn  your  eye,  and  they  are  there  again. 

The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those  cresses, 

And  cool  themselves  among  the  emerald  tresses ; 

The  while  they  cool  themselves,  they  freshness  give, 

And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  may  live  : 

So  keeping  up  an  interchange  of  favors. 

Like  good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  behaviors. 

Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 

From  low-hung  branches :  little  space  they  stop 

But  sip,  and  twitter,  and  their  feathers  sleek ; 

Then  oif  at  once,  as  in  a  wanton  freak  : 

Or  perhaps,  to  show  their  black  and  golden  wings, 

Pausing  upon  their  yellow  flutterings. 

Were  I  in  such  a  place,  I  sure  should  pray 

That  naught  less  sweet,  miglit  call  my  thoughts  away, 

Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a  maiden's  gown 

Fanning  away  the  dandelion's  down ; 

Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 

Patting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes. 

How  she  would  start,  and  blush,  thus  to  be  caught 

Playing  in  all  her  innocence  of  thought ! 

O  let  me  lead  her  gently  o'er  the  brook, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEiMS. 


Watch  her  half-smiling  lips  and  downward  look  ; 
O  let  me  for  one  moment  touch  her  wrist ; 
Let  me  one  moment  to  her  breathing  list ; 
And  as  she  leaves  me,  may  she  often  turn 
Her  fair  eyes  looking  through  her  locks  auburn. 
What  next  ?  a  tuft  of  evening  primroses, 
O'er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  doses ; 
O'er  which  it  well  might  take  a  pleasant  sleep, 
But  that  't  is  ever  startled  by  the  leap 
Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers  ;  or  by  the  flitting 
Of  diverse  moths,  that  aye  their  rest  are  quitting  ; 
Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rim 
Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  suim 
Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 
O  Maker  of  sweet  poets  !  dear  delight 
Of  this  fair  world  and  all  its  gentle  livers ; 
Spangler  of  clouds,  halo  of  crystal  rivers, 
Mingler  with  leaves,  and  dew  and  tumbling  si  reams, 
Closer  of  lovely  eyes  to  lovely  dreams. 
Lover  of  loneliness,  and  wandering. 
Of  upcast  eye,  and  tender  pondering  ! 
Thee  must  I  praise  above  all  other  glories 
That  smile  us  on  to  tell  delightful  stories. 
For  what  has  made  the  sage  or  poet  write 
But  the  fair  paradise  of  Nature's  light  ? 
In  the  calm  grandeur  of  a  sober  line, 
We  see  the  waving  of  the  mountain  pine  ; 
And  when  a  tale  is  beautifully  staid, 
We  feel  the  safety  of  a  hawthorn  glade  : 
When  it  is  moving  on  luxurious  wings. 
The  soul  is  lost  in  pleasant  smotherings : 
Fair  dewy  roses  brush  against  our  faces, 
And  flowering  laurels  spring  from  diamond  vases; 
-.5* 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


O'erhead  we  see  the  jasmine  and  sweet-briar, 

And  bloomy  grapes  laughing  from  green  attire  ; 

While  at  our  feet,  the  voice  of  crystal  bubbles 

Charms  us  at  once  away  from  all  our  troubles  : 

So  that  we  feel  uplifted  from  the  world. 

Walking  upon  the  white  clouds  wreath'd  and  curlVl. 

So  felt  he,  who  first  told  how  Psyche  vent 

On  the  smooth  wind  to  realms  of  wonderment ; 

What  Psyche  felt,  and  Love,  when  their  full  lips 

First  touch'd  ;  what  amorous  and  fondling  nips    _ 

They  gave  each  other's  cheeks;  with  all  their  sighs, 

And  how  they  kist  each  other's  tremulous  eyes : 

The  silver  lamp, — the  ravishment — the  wonder — 

The  darkness — loneliness — the  fearful  thunder; 

Their  woes  gone  by,  and  both  to  heaven  up  flown, 

To  bow  for  gratitude  before  Jove's  throne. 

So  did  he  feel,  who  pull'd  the  boughs  aside. 

That  we  might  look  into  a  forest  wide, 

To  catch  a  glimpse  of  Fauns,  and  Dryades 

Coming  with  softest  rustle  through  the  trees  ; 

And  garlands  woven  of  flowers  wild,  and  sweet, 

Upheld  on  ivory  wrists,  or  sporting  feet : 

Telling  us  how  fair  trembling  Syrinx  fled 

Arcadian  Pan,  with  such  a  fearful  dread. 

Poor  nymph, — poor  Pan, — how  he  did  weep  to  find 

Naught  but  a  lovely  sighing  of  the  wind 

Along  the  reedy  stream !  a  half-heard  strain 

Full  of  sweet  desolation — balmy  pain. 

What  first  inspired  a  bard  of  old  to  sing 
Narcissus  pining  o'er  the  untainted  spring  ? 
In  some  delicious  ramble,  he  had  found 
A  little  space,  with  boughs  all  woven  round  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  S3 


And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  clearer  pool 

Than  e'er  reflected  in  its  pleasant  cool 

The  blue  -sky,  here  and  there  serenely  peeping, 

Through  tendril  wreatlis  fantastically  creeping. 

And  on  the  bank  a  lonely  flower  he  spied, 

A  meek  and  forlorn  flower,  witli  naught  of  pride, 

Drooping  its  beaut_v  o'er  the  watery  clearness;, 

To  woo  its  own  sad  image  into  nearness : 

Deaf  to  light  Zephyrus  it  would  not  move  ; 

But  still  would  seem  to  droop,  to  pine,  to  love. 

So  while  the  poet  stood  in  this  sweet  spot, 

Some  fainter  gleamings  o'er  his  fancy  shot ; 

Nor  was  it  long  ere  he  had  told  the  tale 

Of  young  Narcissus,  and  sad  Echo's  bale. 

Where  had  he  been,  from  whose  warm  head  ou)  flew 

That  sweetest  of  all  songs,  that  ever  new, 

That  aye  refreshing,  pure  deliciousness. 

Coming  ever  to  bless 

The  wanderer  by  moonlight  ?  to  him  bringing 

Shapes  from  the  invisible  world,  unearthly  singing 

From  out  the  middle  air,  from  flowery  nests, 

And  from  the  pillowy  silkiness  that  rests 

Full  in  the  speculation  of  the  stars. 

Ah  !  surely  he  had  burst  our  mortal  bars  ; 

Into  some  wondrous  region  he  had  gone, 

To  search  for  thee,  divine  Endymion  ! 

He  was  a  Poet,  sure  a  lover  too, 

Who  stood  on  Latmus'  top,  what  time  there  blew 

Soft  breezes  from  the  myrtle  vale  below ; 

And  brought,  in  faintness  solemn,  sweet,  and  slow, 

A  hymn  from  Dian's  temple ;  while  upswelling, 


84  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  incense  went  to  her  own  starry  dwelling. 
But  though  her  face  was  clear  as  infants'  eyes, 
Though  she  stood  smiling  o'er  the  sacrifice, 
The  poet  wept  at  her  so  piteous  fate, 
Wept  that  such  beauty  should  be  desolate : 
So  in  fine  wrath  some  golden  sounds  he  won, 
And  gave  meek  Cynthia  her  Endymion. 

Queen  of  the  wide  air ;  thou  most  lovely  queen 
Of  all  the  brightness  that  mine  eyes  have  seen  ! 
As  thou  exceedest  all  things  in  thy  shine, 
So  every  tale,  does  this  sweet  tale  of  thine. 
O  for  three  words  of  honey,  that  1  might 
Tell  but  one  Avonder  of  thy  bridal  night ! 

Where  distant  ships  do  seem  to  show  their  keel.s, 

Phoebus  awhile  delay 'd  his  mighty  wheels, 

And  turn'd  to  smile  upon  thy  bashful  eyes. 

Ere  he  his  unseen  pomp  would  solemnise. 

The  evening  weather  was  so  bright,  and  clear, 

That  men  of  health  were  of  unusual  cheer ; 

Stepping  like  Homer  at  the  trumpet's  call, 

Or  young  Apollo  on  the  pedestal : 

And  lovely  women  were  as  fair  and  warm, 

As  Venus  looking  sideways  in  alarm. 

The  breezes  were  ethereal,  and  pure. 

And  crept  through  half  closed  lattices  to  cure 

The  languid  sick  ;  it  cool'd  their  fever'd  sleep, 

And  soothed  them  into  slumbers  full  and  deep. 

Soon  they  awoke  clear-eyed  :  nor  burn'd  with  thirsting, 

Nor  with  hot  fingers,  nor  with  temples  bursting : 

And  springing  up,  they  met  the  wondering  siglit 

Of  their  dear  friends,  nigh  foolish  with  delight ; 

Who  feel  their  arms,  and  breasts,  and  kiss,  and  stare, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEiMS.  85 


And  on  their  placid  foreheads  part  the  hair. 
Young  men  and  maidens  at  each  other  gazed, 
With  hands  held  back,  and  motionless,  amazed 
To  see  the  brightness  in  eacli  other's  eyes ; 
And  so  they  stood,  fiU'd  with  a  sweet  surprise, 
Until  their  tongues  were  loosed  in  poesy. 
Therefore  no  lover  did  of  anguish  die  : 
But  the  soft  numbers,  in  that  moment  spoken, 
Made  silken  ties,  that  never  may  be  broken. 
Cynthia  !  I  cannot  tell  the  greater  blisses 
That  foUow'd  thine,  and  thy  dear  shepherd's  kisses 
Was  there  a  poet  born  ? — But  now  no  more — 
My  wandering  spirit  must  no  farther  soar. 


SPECIMEN  OF  AN  INDUCTION  TO  A  POEM. 

Lo  !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry  ; 

For  large  white  plumes  are  dancing  in  mine  eye. 

Not  like  the  formal  crest  of  latter  days : 

But  bending  in  a  thousand  graceful  ways  ; 

So  graceful,  that  it  seems  no  mortal  hand, 

Or  e'en  the  touch  of  Archimago's  wand, 

Could  charm  them  into  such  an  attitude. 

We  must  think  rather,  that  in  playful  mood. 

Some  mountain  breeze  had  turn'd  its  chief  delight 

To  show  this  wonder  of  its  gentle  might. 

Lo!  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry  ; 

For  while  I  muse,  the  lance  points  slantingly 

Athwart  the  morning  air ;  some  lady  sweet, 

Who  cannot  feel  for  cold  her  tender  feet, 

From  the  worn  top  of  some  old  battlement 

Hails  it  with  tears,  her  stout  defender  sent ; 


86  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  from  her  own  pure  self  no  joy  dissembling, 

Wraps  round  her  ample  robe  with  happy  trembling. 

Sometimes  when  the  good  knight  his  rest  could  take, 

It  is  reflected,  clearly,  in  a  lake, 

With  the  young  ashen  boughs,  'gainst  which  it  rests, 

And  th'  half-seen  mossiness  of  linnets'  nests. 

Ah  !  shall  I  ever  tell  its  cruelty, 

When  the  fire  flashes  from  a  warrior's  eye, 

And  his  tremendous  hand  is  grasping  it. 

And  his  dark  brow  for  very  wrath  is  knit  ? 

Or  when  his  spirit,  with  more  calm  intent, 

Leaps  to  the  honors  of  a  tournament, 

And  makes  the  gazers  round  about  the  ring 

Stare  at  the  grandeur  of  the  balancing  ? 

No,  no !  this  is  far  off": — then  how  shall  I 

Revive  the  dying  tones  of  minstrelsy, 

Which  linger  yet  about  long  gothic  arches. 

In  dark  green  ivy,  and  among  wild  larches. 

How  sing  the  splendor  of  the  revelries. 

When  butts  of  wine  are  drank  ofl'  to  the  lees  ? 

And  that  bright  lance,  against  the  fretted  wall. 

Beneath  the  shade  of  stately  banneral, 

Is  slung  with  shining  cuirass,  sword,  and  sliield  ? 

Where  ye  may  see  a  spur  in  bloody  field. 

Light-footed  damsels  move  with  gentle  paces 

Round  the  wide  hall,  and  show  their  happy  faces  ; 

Or  stand  in  Qourtly  talk  by  fives  aiid  sevens : 

Like  those  fair  stars  that  twinkle  in  the  heavens. 

Yet  must  I  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry  : 

Or  wherefore  comes  that  kniglit  so  proudly  by  ? 

Wherefore  more  proudly  does  the  gentle  knight 

Rein  in  the  swelling  of  his  ample  might  ? 

Spenser!  thy  brows  are  arched,  open,  kind, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  87 


And  come  like  a  clear  sun-rise  to  my  mind  ; 

And  always  does  my  heart  with  pleasure  dance, 

When  I  think  on  thy  noble  countenance : 

Where  never  yet  was  aught  more  earthly  seen 

Than  the  pure  freshness  of  thy  laurels  green. 

Therefore,  great  bard,  I  not  so  fearfully 

Call  on  thy  gentle  spirit  to  hover  nigh 

My  daring  steps  :  or  if  thy  tender  care, 

Thus  startled  unaware, 

Be  jealous  that  the  foot  of  other  wight 

Should  madly  follow  that  bright  path  of  light  • 

Traced  by  thy  loved  Libertas :  he  will  speak, 

And  tell  thee  that  my  prayer  is  very  meek  ; 

That  I  will  follow  with  due  reverence, 

And  start  with  awe  at  mine  own  strange  pretence. 

Him  thou  wilt  hear;  so  I  will  rest  in  hope 

To  see  wide  plains,  fair  trees,  and  lawny  slope  ; 

The  morn,  the  eve,  the  light,  the  shade,  the  flowers ; 

Clear  streams,  smooth  lakes,  and  overlooking  towers. 


CALIDORE. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

YorxG  Calidore  is  paddling  o'er  the  lake  ; 

His  healthful  spirit  eager  and  awake 

To  feel  the  beauty  of  a  silent  eve, 

Which  seem'd  full  loath  this  happy  world  to  leave. 

The  light  dwelt  o'er  the  scene  so  lingeringly. 

He  bares  his  forehead  to  the  cool  blue  sky. 

And  smiles  at  the  far  clearness  all  around. 

Until  his  heart  is  well  nigh  overwound. 

And  turns  for  calmness  to  the  pleasant  green 


SS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Of  easy  slopes,  and  shadowy  trees  that  lean 

So  elegantly  o'er  the  waters'  brim 

And  show  their  blossoms  trim. 

Scarce  can  his  clear  and  nimble  eyesight  follow 

The  freaks  and  dartings  of  the  black-wing'd  swallow, 

Delighting  much,  to  see  it  half  at  rest, 

Dip  so  refreshingly  its  wings  and  breast 

'Gainst  the  smooth  surface,  and  to  mark  anon, 

The  widening  circles  into  nothing  gone. 

And  now  the  sharp  keel  of  his  little  boat 
Comes  up  with  ripple,  and  with  easy  float, 
And  glides  into  a  bed  of  water-lilies : 
Broad-leaved  are  they,  and  their  white  canopies 
Are  upward  turn'd  to  catch  the  heavens'  dew. 
Near  to  a  little  island's  point  they  grew  ; 
Whence  Calidofe  might  have  the  goodliest  view 
Of  this  sweet  spot  of  earth.     The  bowery  sliore 
Went  off  in  gentle  windings  to  the  hoar 
And  light  blue  mountains :  but  no  breathing  man 
With  a  warm  heart,  and  eye  prepared  to  scan 
Nature's  clear  beauty,  could  pass  lightly  by 
Objects  that  look'd  out  so  invitingly 
On  either  side.     These,  gentle  Calidore 
Greeted,  as  he  had  known  them  long  before. 

The  sidelong  view  of  swelling  leafiness, 
Which  the  glad  setting  sun  in  gold  doth  dress, 
Whence,  ever  and  anon,  the  joy  outsprings, 
And  scales  upon  the  beauty  of  its  wings. 
The  lonely  turret,  shatter'd,  and  outworn, 
Stands  venerably  proud  ;  too  proud  to  mourn 
Its  long-lost  grandeur :  fir-trees  grow  around, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  89 


Aye  dropping  their  hard  fruit  upon  the  ground. 
The  little  chapel,  with  a  cross  above, 
Upholding  wreaths  of  ivy  ;  the  white  dove, 
That  on  the  windows  spreads  his  feathers  light, 
And  seems  from  purple  clouds  to  wing  its  flight. 

Green  tufted  islands  casting  their  soft  shades 

Across  the  lake  ;  sequester'd  leafy  glades. 

That  through  the  dimness  of  their  twilight  show 

Large  dock-leaves,  spiral  foxgloves,  or  the  glow 

Of  the  wild  cat's-eyes,  or  the  silvery  stems 

Of  delicate  birch-trees,  or  long  grass  which  hems 

A  little  brook.     The  youth  had  long  been  viewing 

These  pleasant  things,  and  heaven  was  bedewing 

The  mountain  flowers,  when  his  glad  senses  caught 

A  trumpet's  silver  voice.     Ah  !  it  was  fraught 

With  many  joys  for  him  :  the  warder's  ken 

Had  found  white  coursers  prancing  in  the  glen  : 

Friends  very  dear  to  him  he  soon  will  see  ; 

So  pushes  ofl*  his  boat  most  eagerly. 

And  soon  upon  the  lake  he  skims  along, 

Deaf  to  the  nightingale's  first  under-song ; 

Nor  minds  he  the  white  swans  that  dream  so  sweetly 

His  spirit  flies  before  him  so  completely. 

And  now  he  turns  a  jutting  point  of  land, 

"Whence  may  be  seen  the  castle  gloomy  and  grand  : 

Nor  will  a  bee  buzz  round  two  swelling  peaches, 

Before  the  point  of  his  light  shallop  reaches 

Those  marble  steps  that  through  the  water  dip  : 

Now  over  them  he  goes  with  hasty  trip. 

And  scarcely  stays  to  ope  the  folding  doors : 

Anon  he  leaps  along  the  oaken  floors 

Of  halls  and  corridors. 


90  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Delicious  sounds !  those  little  bright-eyed  things 
That  float  about  the  air  on  azure  wings, 
Had  been  less  heartfelt  by  him  than  the  clang 
Of  clattering  hoofs ;  into  the  court  he  sprang, 
Just  as  two  noble  steeds,  and  palfreys  twain. 
Were  slanting  out  their  necks  with  loosen'd  rein  ; 
While  from  beneath  the  threatening  portcullis 
They  brought  their  happy  burthens.     What  a  kiss, 
What  gentle  squeeze  he  gave  each  lady's  hand  ! 
How  tremblingly  their  delicate  ancles  spann'd  ! 
Into  how  sweet  a  trance  his  soul  was  gone, 
While  whisperings  of  aftection 
Made  him  delay  to  let  their  tender  feet 
Come  to  the  earth ;  with  an  incline  so  sweet 
From  their  low  palfreys  o'er  his  neck  they  bent : 
And  whether  there  were  tears  of  languishment, 
Or  that  the  evening  dew  had  pearl'd  their  tresses, 
He  feels  a  moisture  on  his  cheek,  and  blesses 
With  lips  that  tremble,  and  with  glistening  eye, 
All  the  soft  luxury 

That  nestled  in  his  arms.     A  dimpled  hand. 
Fair  as  some  wonder  out  of  fairy  land. 
Hung  from  his  shoulder  like  the  drooping  flowers 
Of  whitest  Cassia,  fresh  from  summer  showers  : 
And  this  he  fondled  with  his  happy  cheek. 
As  if  for  joy  he  would  no  further  seek  : 
When  the  kind  voice  of  good  Sir  Clerimond 
Came  to  his  ear,  like  something  from  beyond 
His  present  being  :  so  he  gently  drew 
His  warm  arms,  thrilling  now  with  pulses  new. 
From  their  sweet  thrall,  and  forward  gently  bending, 
Thank'd  Heaven  that  his  joy  was  never-ending  ; 
While  'gainst  his  forehead  he  devoutly  press'd 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  91 


A  hand  Heaven  made  to  succor  the  distress'd  ; 
A  hand  that  from  the  world's  bleak  promontory- 
Had  lifted  Calidore  for  deeds  of  Glory, 

Amid  the  pages,  and  the  torches'  glare, 

There  stood  a  knight,  patting  the  flowing  hair 

Of  his  proud  horse's  mane  :  he  was  withal 

A  man  of  elegance,  and  stature  tall : 

So  that  the  waving  of  his  plumes  would  be 

High  as  the  berries  of  a  wild  ash  tree, 

Or  as  the  winged  cap  of  Mercury. 

His  armor  was  so  dexterously  wrought 

In  shape,  that  sure  no  living  man  had  thought 

It  hard,  and  heavy  steel  :  but  that  indeed 

It  was  some  glorious  form,  some  splendid  weed, 

In  which  a  spirit  new  come  from  the  skies 

Might  live,  and  show  itself  to  human  eyes. 

'T  is  the  far  famed,  the  brave  Sir  Gondibert, 

Said  the  good  man  to  Calidore  alert ; 

While  the  young  warrior  with  a  step  of  grace 

Came  up, — a  courtly  smile  upon  his  face, 

And  mailed  hand  held  out,  ready  to  greet 

The  large-eyed  wonder,  and  ambitious  heat 

Of  the  aspiring  boy  ;  who  as  he  led 

Those  smiling  ladies,  often  turn'd  his  head 

To  admire  the  visor  arch'd  so  gracefully 

Over  a  knightly  brow  ;  while  they  went  by 

The  lamps  that  from  the  high-roof 'd  hall  were  pendent, 

And  gave  the  steel  a  shining  quite  transcendent. 

Soon  in  a  pleasant  chamber  they  are  seated, 

The  sweet-lipp'd  ladies  have  already  greeted 

All  the  green  leaves  that  round  the  window  clamber, 


92  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

To  show  their  purple  stars,  and  bells  of  amber. 

Sir  Gondibert  has  dofF'd  his  shining  steel, 

Gladdening  in  the  free  and  airy  feel 

Of  a  light  mantle  ;  and  while  Clerimond 

Is  looking  round  about  him  with  a  fond 

And  placid  eye,  young  Calidore  is  burning 

To  hear  of  knightly  deeds,  and  gallant  spurning 

Of  all  unworthiness  ;  and  how  the  strong  of  arm 

Kept  off  dismay,  and  terror,  and  alarm 

From  lovely  woman  :  while  brimful  of  this. 

He  gave  each  damsel's  hand  so  warm  a  kiss, 

And  had  such  manly  ardor  in  his  eye, 

That  each  at  other  look'd  half-staringly  : 

And  then  their  features  started  into  smiles, 

Sweet  as  blue  heavens  o'er  enchanted  isles. 

Softly  the  breezes  from  the  forest  came. 

Softly  they  blew  aside  the  taper's  flame  ; 

Clear  was  the  song  from  Philomel's  far  bower  ; 

Grateful  the  incense  from  the  lime-tree  flower  ; 

Mysterious,  wild,  the  far-heard  trumpet's  tone  ; 

Lovely  the  nioon  in  ether,  all  alone  : 

Sweet  too  the  conversQ  of  these  happy  mortals, 

As  that  of  busy  spirits  when  the  portals 

Are  closing  in  the  West ;  or  that  soft  humming 

We  hear  around  when  Hesperus  is  coming. 

Sweet  be  their  sleep.     ******* 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  9H 

TO  SOME  LADIES, 

ON    RECEIVING    A    CURIOUS   SHELL. 

What  though,  while  the  wonders  of  nature  exploring, 

I  cannot  your  light,  mazy  footsteps  attend  ; 
Nor  listen  to  accents,  that  almost  adoring, 

Bless  Cynthia's  face,  the  enthusiast's  friend  : 

Yet  over  the  steep,  whence  the  mountain-stream  rushrs, 

With  you,  kindest  friends,  in  idea  I  rove ; 
Mark  the  clear  tumbling  crystal,  its  passionate  gushes, 

Its  spray,  that  ihe  wild  flower  kindly  bedews. 

Why  linger  ye  so,  the  wild  labyrinth  strolling  ? 

Why  breathless,  unable  your  bliss  to  declare  ? 
Ah  !  you  list  to  the  nightingale's  tender  condoling, 

Responsive  to  sylphs,  in  the  moon-beamy  air. 

'T  is  morn,  and  the  flowers  with  dew  are  yet  drooping, 

I  see  you  are  treading  the  verge  of  the  sea  : 
And  now  !  ah,  I  see  it — you  just  now  are  stooping 

To  pick  up  the  keepsake  intended  for  me. 

If  a  cherub,  on  pinions  of  silver  descending, 

Had  brought  me  a  gem  from  the  fretwork  of  Heaven  ; 

And  smiles  with  his  star-cheering  voice  sweetly  blending, 
The  blessings  of  Tighe  had  melodiously  given  ; 

It  had  not  created  a  warmer  emotion 

Than  the  present,  fair  nymphs,  I  was  blest  with  from  you  ; 
Than  the  shell,  from  the  bright  golden  sands  of  the  ocean, 

Which  the  emerald  waves  at  your  feet  gladly  threw. 


94  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

For,  indeed,  't  is  a  sweet  and  peculiar  pleasure 
(And  blissful  is  he  who  such  happiness  finds), 

To  possess  but  a  span  of  the  hour  of  leisure 
In  elegant,  pure,  and  aerial  minds. 


ON    RECEIVING   A    COPY    OF    VERSES    FROM    THE   SAME 
LADIES. 

Hast  thou  from  the  caves  of  Golconda,  a  gem 
Pure  as  the  ice-drop  that  froze  on  the  mountain  ? 

Bright  as  the  humming-bird's  green  diadem, 

When  it  flutters  in  sunbeams  that  shine  through  a  fountain  ? 

Hast  thou  a  goblet  for  dark  sparkling  wine  ? 

That  goblet  right  heavy,  and  massy,  and  gold  ? 
And  splendidly  mark'd  with  the  story  divine 

Of  Armida  the  fair,  and  Rinaldo  the  bold  ? 

Hast  thou  a  steed  with  a  mane  richly  flowing  ? 

Hast- thou  a  sword  that  thine  enemy's  smart  is  ? 
Plast  thou  a  trumpet  rich  melodies  blowing  ? 

And  wear'st  thou  the  shield  of  the  famed  Britomarlis  ? 

What  is  it  that  hangs  from  thy  shoulder  so  brave, 
Embroidor'd  with  many  a  spring-peering  flower  ? 

Is  it  a  scarf  that  thy  fair  lady  gave  ? 

And  hastest  thou  now  to  that  fair  lady's  bower  ? 

Ah  !  courteous  Sir  Knigiit,  witii  large  joy  thou  art  crown'd  ; 

Full  many  the  glories  tliat  brightou  thy  youth  ! 
I  will  tell  thee  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 

In  magical  powers  to  bless  and  to  soothe. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  95 


On  this  scroll  thou  seest  written  in  characters  fair 
A  sun-beanflng  tale  of  a  wreath,  and  a  chain : 

And,  warrior,  it  nurtures  the  property  rare 

Of  charming  my  mind  from  the  trammels  of  pain. 

This  canopy  mark  :  't  is  the  work  of  a  fay  ; 

Beneath  its  rich  shade  did  King  Oberon  languish, 
When  lovely  Titania  was  far,  far  away, 

And  cruelly  left  him  to  sorrow  and  anguish. 

There,  oft  would  he  bring  from  his  soft-sighing  lute 

Wild  strains  to  which,  spell-bound,  the  nightingales  listen'd  ! 

The  wondering  spirits  of  Heaven  Avere  mute. 

And  tears  'mong  the  dewdrops  of  morning  oft  glisten'd. 

In  this  little  dome,  all  those  melodies  strange. 
Soft,  plaintive,  and  melting,  for  ever  will  sigh  ; 

Nor  e'er  will  the  notes  from  their  tenderness  change, 
Nor  e'er  will  the  music  of  Oberon  die. 

So  when  I  am  in  a  voluptuous  vein, 

I  pillow  my  head  on  the  sweets  of  the  rose. 
And  list  to  the  tale  of  the  wreath,  and  the  chain, 

Till  its  echoes  depart;  then  I  sink  to  repose. 

Adieu  !  valiant  Eric !  with  joy  thou  art  crown'd, 
Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy  youth, 

I  too  have  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 
In  magical  powers  to  bless,  and  to  soothe. 


96  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TO .  ^ 

Hadst  thou  lived  in  days  of  old, 

O  what  wonders  had  been  told 

Of  thy  lively  countenance, 

And  thy  humid  eyes,  that  dance 

In  the  midst  of  their  own  brightness, 

In  the  very  fane  of  lightness  ; 

Over  which  thine  eyebrows,  leaning, 

Picture  out  each  lovely  meaning  : 

In  a  dainty  bend  they  lie. 

Like  to  streaks  across  the  sky, 

Or  the  feathers  from  a  crow. 

Fallen  on  a  bed  of  snow. 

Of  thy  dark  hair,  that  extends 

Into  many  graceful  bends  : 

As  the  leaves  of  hellebore 

Turn  to  whence  they  sprung  before. 

And  behind  each  ample  curl 

Peeps  the  richness  of  a  pearl. 

Downward  too  flows  many  a  tress 

With  a  glossy  waviness. 

Full,  and  round  like  globes  that  rise 

From  the  censer  to  the  skies 

Through  sunny  air.     Add  too  the  sweetness 

Of  thy  honied  voice ;  tlie  neatness 

Of  thine  ancle  lightly  lurn'd  : 

With  those  beauties  scarce  discern'd, 

Kept  with  such  sweet  privacy, 

That  they  seldom  meet  the  eye 

Of  the  little  Loves  that  fly 

Round  about  with  eager  pry. 

Saving  when  with  freshening  lave, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  97 

Thou  dipp'st  them  in  the  taintless  wave ; 

Like  twin  water-lilies,  born 

In  the  coolness  of  the  morn. 

O,  if  thou  hadst  breathed  then, 

Now  the  Muses  had  been  ten. 

Couldst  thou  wish  for  lineag»  higher 

Than  twin-sister  of  Thalia  ? 

At  least  for  ever,  evermore 

Will  I  call  the  Graces  four. 

Hadst  thou  lived  when  chivalry 

Lifted  up  her  lance  on  high, 

Tell  me  what  thou  wouldst  have  been  ? 

Ah  !  I  see  the  silver  sheen 

Of  thy  broider'd-floating  vest 

Covering  half  thine  ivory  breast : 

Which,  O  Heavens  !  I  should  see, 

But  that  cruel  Destiny 

Has  placed  a  golden  cuirass  there, 

Keeping  secret  what  is  fair. 

Like  sunbeams  in  a  cloudlet  nested, 

Thy  locks  in  knightly  casque  are  rested : 

O'er  which  bend  four  milky  plumes. 

Like  the  gentle  lily's  blooms 

Springing  from  a  costly  vase. 

See  with  what  a  stately  pace 

Comes  tiiine  alabaster  steed  ; 

Servant  of  heroic  deed  ! 

O'er  his  loins,  his  trappings  glow 

Like  the  northern  lights  on  snow. 

Mount  his  back  !  thy  sword  unsheath  ? 

Sign  of  the  enchanter's  death  ; 

Bane  of  every  wicked  spell ; 

Silencer  of  dragons'  yell . 

PART  II.  6 


98  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Alas !  thou  this  wilt  never  do  : 
Thou  art  an  enchantress  too, 
And  wilt  surely  never  spill 
Blood  of  those  whose  eyes  can  kill. 


TO  HOPE. 

When  by  my  solitary  hearth  I  sit, 

And  hateful  thoughts  enwrap  my  soul  in  gloom  ; 
When  no  fair  dreams  before  my  "  mind's  eye"  flit, 

And  the  bare  heath  of  life  presents  no  bloom  ; 
Sweet  Hope  !  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed, 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

Whene'er  I  wander,  at  the  fall  of  night. 

Where woven  boughs  shut  out  the  moon's  bright  ray, 
Should  sad  Despondency  my  musings  fright, 

And  frown,  to  drive  fair  Cheerfulness  away, 
Peep  with  the  moonbeams  through  the  leafy  roof, 
And  keep  that  fiend  Despondence  far  aloof. 

Should  Disappointment,  parent  of  Despair, 
Strive  for  her  son  to  seize  my  careless  heart 

When,  like  a  cloud,  he  sits  upon  the  air, 
Preparing  on  his  spell- bound  prey  to  dart : 

Chase  him  away,  sweet  Hope,  with  visage  bright, 

And  fright  him,  as  the  morning  frightens  night ! 

Whene'er  the  fate  of  those  I  hold  most  dear 

Tells  to  my  fearful  breast  a  tale  of  sorrow, 
O  bright-eyed  Hope,  my  morbid  fancy  cheer ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  99 


Let  me  awhile  thy  sweetest  comforts  borrow  : 
Thy  heaven-born  radiance  around  nie  shed, 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head ! 

Should  e'er  unhappy  love  my  bosom  pain, 

From  cruel  parents,  or  relentless  fair, 
O  let  me  think,  it  is  not  quite  in  vain 
To  sigh  out  sonnets  to  the  midnifrlit  air ! 
•  Sweet  Hope  !  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed, 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

In  the  long  vista  of  the  years  to  roll. 

Let  me  not  see  our  country's  honor  fade  ! 

O  let  me  see  our  land  retain  her  soul  ! 

Her  pride,  her  freedom  ;  and  not  freedom's  shade. 

From  thy  bright  eyes  unusual  brightness  shed — 

Beneath  thy  pinions  canopy  my  head  ! 

Let  me  not  see  the  patriot's  high  bequest, 
Great  liberty  !  how  great  in  plain  attire  ! 

With  the  base  purple  of  a  court  oppress'd, 
Bowing  her  head,  and  ready  to  expire : 

But  let  me  see  thee  stoop  from  Heaven  on  wings 

That  fill  the  skies  with  silver  glitterings : 

And  as,  in  sparkling  majesty,  a  star 

Gilds  the  bright  summit  of  some  gloomy  cloud  ; 
.  Brightening  the  half-veil'd  face  of  heaven  afar: 
So,  when  dark  thoughts  my  boding  spirit  shroud, 
Sweet  Hope  !  celestial  influence  round  me  shed. 
Waving  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 
February,  1815. 


100  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

IMITATION  OF  SPENSER. 

Now  morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came 
And  her  first  footsteps  touch' d  a  verdant  hill : 
Crowning  its  lawny  crest  with  amber  flame, 
Silvering  the  untainted  gushes  of  its  rill ; 
Which,  pure  from  mossy  beds,  did  down  distil, 
And  after  parting  beds  of  simple  flowers, 
By  many  streams  a  little  lake  did  fill, 
Which  round  its  marge  reflected  woven  bowers, 
And,  in  its  middle  space,  a  sky  that  never  lowers. 

There  the  kingfisher  saw  his  plumage  bright, 
Vying  with  fish  of  brilliant  dye  below  : 
Whose  silken  fins'  and  golden  scales'  light 
Cast  upward,  through  the  waves,  a  ruby  glow  ; 
There  saw  the  swan  his  neck  of  arehed  snow. 
And  oar'd  himself  along  with  majesty  : 
Sparkled  his  jetty  eyes ;  his  feet  did  show 
Beneath  the  waves  like  Afric's  ebony, 
And  on  his  back  a  fay  reclined  voluptuously. 

Ah  !  could  I  tell  the  wonders  of  an  isle 
That  in  that  fairest  lake  had  placed  been, 
I  could  e'en  Dido  of  her  grief  beguile ; 
Or  rob  from  aged  Lear  his  bitter  teen : 
For  sure  so  fair  a  place  was  never  seen 
Of  all  that  ever  charm'd  romantic  eye : 
It  seem'd  an  emerald  in  the  silver  sheen 
Of  the  bright  waters  ;  or  as  when  on  high, 
Through  clouds  of  fleecy  white,  laughs  the  coerulean  sky. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  101 


And  all  around  it  dJpp'd  luxuriously 

Slopings  of  verdure  tlirough  the  glossy  tide, 

Which,  as  it  were  in  gentle  amity, 

Rippled  delighted  up  the  flowery  side  ; 

As  if  to  glean  the  ruddy  tears  it  tried, 

Which  fell  profusely  from  the  rose-tree  stem  ! 

Haply  it  was  the  workings  of  its  pride, 

In  strife  to  throw  upon  the  shore  a  gem 

Outvying  all  the  buds  in  Flora's  diadem. 
***** 


Woman  !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain, 

Inconstant,  childish,  proud,  and  full  of  fancies; 

Without  that  modest  softening  that  enhances 
The  downcast  eye,  repentant  of  the  pain 
That  its  mild  light  creates  to  heal  again ; 

E'en  then,  elate,  my  spirit  leaps  and  prances. 

E'en  then  my  soul  with  exultation  dances 
For  that  to  love,  so  long,  I  've  dormant  lain  : 
But  when  I  see  thee  meek,  and  kind,  and  tender, 

Heavens  !  how  desperately  do  I  adore 
Thy  winning  graces ; — to  be  thy  defender 

I  hotly  burn — to  be  a  Calidore — 
A  very  Red  Cross  Knight — a  stout  Leander — 

Might  I  be  loved  by  thee  like  these  of  yore. 

Light  feet,  dark  violet  eyes,  and  parted  hair  ; 

Soft  dimpled  hands,  white  neck,  and  creamy  breast ; 

Are  things  on  which  the  dazzled  senses  rest 
Till  the  fond,  fixed  eyes,  forget  they  stare. 
From  such  fine  pictures,  Heavens  !  I  cannot  dare 

To  turn  my  admiration,  though  unpossess'd 


102  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

They  be  of  what  is  worthy, — though  not  drcst, 
In  lovely  modesty,  and  virtues  rare. 
Yet  these  I  leave  as  thoughtless  as  a  lark  ; 

These  lures  I  straight  forget, — e'en  ere  I  dine, 
Or  thrice  my  palate  moisten  :  b.ut  when  I  mark 

Such  charms  with  mild  intelligences  shine, 
My  ear  is  open  like  a  greedy  shark, 

To  catch  the  tunings  of  a  voice  divine. 

Ah  !  who  can  e'er  forget  so  fair  a  being  ? 

Who  can  forget  her  half-retiring  sweets  ? 

God  !  she  is  like  a  milk-white  lamb  that  bleats 
For  man's  protection.     Surely  the  All-seeing, 
Who  joys  to  see  us  with  his  gifts  agreeing. 

Will  never  give  him  pinions,  who  intreats 

Such  innocence  to  ruin, — who  vilely  cheats 
A  dove-like  bosom.     In  truth  there  is  no  freeing 
One's  thoughts  from  such  a  beauty  ;  when  I  hear 

A  lay  that  once  I  saw  her  hand  awake. 
Her  form  seems  floating  palpable,  and  near  : 

Had  I  e'er  seen  her  from  an  arbor  take 
A  dewy  flower,  oft  would  that  hand  appear, 

And  o'er  my  eyes  the  trembling  moisture  shake. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 


My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk. 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk : 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  103 


'T  is  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

II. 
O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green. 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim. 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen. 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  : 

in. 
Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs  ; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

IV. 

Away  !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee. 
Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 


104  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
•     Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  tlie  breezes  blown 

Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 


I  cannot  see  what  iJowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nov  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves  ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-roso,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 


Darkling  I  listen  ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme. 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  tha'n  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die. 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain— 

To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  1C5 


VII. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  inimoi'tal  Bird  ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ;, 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when  sick  for  home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

VIII. 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream. 
Up  the  hill-side  ;  and  now  't  is  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  musie  : — do  T  wake  or  sleeo  ? 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN. 

I. 
Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness  ! 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme: 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thv  shape 
6* 


106  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  tlie  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?     What  maidens  loath  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?      What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?     What  wild  ecstasy? 


Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  tiioss  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  can«t  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss. 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve  ; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair  ! 


Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new  ; 
More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young  ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

That  leaves  a  heart  high  sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 


Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 
To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  107 


Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be  ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

V. 

O  Attic  shape !  Fair  attitude  !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought. 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 

Thou,  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thouglit 
As  doth  eternity  :   Cold  Pastoral  ! 

W^hen  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  wo 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


ODE  TO  PSYCHE. 

0  Goddess  !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung 
By  sweet  enforcement  and  remembrance  dear, 

And  pardon  that  thy  secrets  should  be  sung. 
Even  into  thine  own  soft-couched  ear : 

Surely  I  dreamt  to-day,  or  did  I  see 

The  winged  Psyche  with  awaken 'd  eyes  ? 

1  wander'd  in  a  forest  thoughtlessly. 

And,  on  the  sudden,  fainting  with  surprise, 
Saw  two  fair  creatures,  couched  side  by  side 


lOS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


In  deepest  grass.  Deneath  the  whispering  roof 
Of  leaves  and  trembled  blossoms,  where  there  ran 
A  brooklet,  scarce  espied  : 
'Mid  hush'd,  cool-rooted  flowers  fragrant-eyed, 

Blue,  silver- white,  and  budded  Tyrian, 
They  lay  calm-breathing  on  the  bedded  grass ; 
Their  arms  embraced,  and  their  pinions  too ; 
Their  lips  touch'd  not,  but  had  not  bade  adieu, 
As  if  disjoined  by  soft-handed  slumber. 
And  ready  still  past  kisses  to  outnumber 
At  tender  eye-dawn  of  aurorean  love  : 

The  winged  boy  I  knew  ; 
But  who  wast  thou,  O  happy,  happy  dove  ? 
His  Psyche  true ! 

O  latest-born  and  loveliest  vision  far 

Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy  ! 
Fairer  than  Phcebe's  sapphire-region'd  star, 

Or  Vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky  ; 
Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  thou  hast  none, 

Nor  altar  heap'd  with  flowers  ; 
Nor  virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours  ; 
No  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming  ; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 
O  brightest !  though  too  late  for  antique  vows. 

Too,  too  late  for  the  fond  believing  lyre, 
When  holy  were  the  haunted  forest  boughs, 

Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire ; 
Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retired 

From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  109 

Fluttering  among  the  faint  Olympians, 
I  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspired. 

So  let  me  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moan 
Upon  the  midnight  hours  ; 
Thy  voice,  thy  lute,  thy  pipe,  thy  incense  sweet 

From  swinged  censer  teeming  : 
Thy  shrine,  thy  grove,  thy  oracle,  thy  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane 

In  some  untrodden  region  of  my  mind, 
Where  branched  thoughfs,  new-grown  with  pleasant  pain, 

Instead  of  pines  shall  murmur  in  the  wind  : 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-cluster'd  trees 

Fledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep  ; 
And  there  by  zephyrs,  streams,  and  birds,  and  bees, 

The  moss-lain  Dryads  shall  be  lull'd  to  sleep  ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
With  the  wreathed  trellis  of  a  working  brain, 

With  buds,  and  bells,  and  stars  without  a  name. 
With  all  the  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could  feign. 

Who  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed  the  same  : 
And  there  shall  be  for  thee  all  soft  delight 

That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 
A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night. 

To  let  the  warm  Love  in  ! 


FANCY. 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam. 
Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 


110  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth  ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage  door, 

She  '11  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 

O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming : 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too. 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 

Cloys  with  tasting  :  What  do  then  ? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night ; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon  ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a  mind  self-overawed, 

Fancy,  high-commission'd  : — send  her  ! 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her  : 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost. 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together. 

All  delights  of  summer  weather  ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray  ; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wcaltli. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  Ill 

Willi  a  slill,  mysterious  sleallh  : 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it: — thou  shall  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear ; 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  : 

And,  in  the  same  moment — hark ! 

'T  is  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold ; 

While-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst; 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May  ; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 

Pearl'd  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep ; 

And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 

Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ; 

Freckled  nest  eggs  thou  shalt  see 

Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree. 

When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 

Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 

Then  the  hurry  and  alarna 

When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm  ; 

Acorns  ripe  down-pattering 

While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 


112  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Everything  is  spoilt  by  use  : 

Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 

Too  much  gazed  at  ?  Where's  the  maid 

Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 

Where's  the  eye,  however  blue. 

Doth  not  weary  ?  Where's  the  face 

One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 

Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 

One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 

Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 

Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind  : 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 

Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide ; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 

Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet. 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  tlie  mosh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash  ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she  '11  brmg. — 

Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


ODE. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth .' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  113 

Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon  ; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wondrous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rou*  ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing. 
But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth ; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again  ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
W^here  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week  ; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights  ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites  ; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame  ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 


114  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too. 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ! 


TO  AUTUMN. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run ; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel  ;  to  sit  budding  more, 

And  still  more,  later  flowei's  for  the  bees. 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease. 

For  Summer  has  o'erbrimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  rney  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half-rcap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers; 
And  sometime  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  115 


Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?    Ay,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  tliy  music  too, 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river-sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY. 

No,  no !  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

Wolf's-bane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poisonous  wine  ; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  niglitshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine  ; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries. 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 
Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries  ; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily. 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all, 


116  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud  j 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose, 
Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand- wave, 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies ; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave. 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eyes. 

She  dwells  with  Beauty — Beauty  that  must  die  ; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu  ;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh. 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips : 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine. 

Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous  tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine ; 

His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might. 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung. 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY. 

As  T  lay  in  my  bed  slepe  full  unmete 
Was  unto  me,  but  why  that  I  ne  might 
Rest  I  ne  wist,  for  there  n'  as  erthly  wight 
(As  I  suppose)  had  more  of  hertis  ese 
Than  I,  for  I  n'  ad  sicknesse  nor  disese. 

Chaucer. 

What  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in  summer  ? 
What  is  more  soothing  than  the  pretty  hummer 
That  stays  one  moment  in  an  open  flower, 
And  buzzes  cheerily  from  bower  to  bower  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  117 


What  is  more  tranquil  than  a  niusk-rose  blowing 
In  a  green  island,  far  from  all  men's  knowing  ? 
More  healthful  than  the  leafiness  of  dales  ? 
More  secret  than  a  nest  of  nightingales  ? 
More  serene  than  Cordelia's  countenance  ? 
More  full  of  visions  than  a  high  romance  ? 
What,  but  thee,  Sleep  ?     Soft  closer  of  our  eyes ! 
Low  murmurer  of  tender  lullabies  ! 
Light  hoverer  around  our  happy  pillows  ! 
Wreather  of  poppy  buds,  and  weeping  willows  ! 
Silent  entangler  of  a  beauty's  tresses  ! 
Most  happy  listener  !  when  the  morning  blesses 
Thee  for  enlivening  all  the  cheerful  eyes 
That  glance  so  brightly  at  the  new  sun-rise. 

But  what  is  higher  beyond  thought  than  thee  ? 

Fresher  than  berries  of  a  mountain-tree  ? 

!More  strange,  more  beautiful,  more  smooth,  more  regal, 

Than  wings  of  swans,  than  doves,  than  dim-seen  eagle  ? 

What  is  it  ?     And  to  what  shall  I  compare  it  ? 

It  has  a  glory,  and  naught  else  can  share  it : 

The  thought  thereof  is  awful,  sweet,  and  holy, 

Chasing  away  all  worldliness  and  folly  : 

Coming  sometimes  like  fearful  claps  of  thunder  ; 

Or  the  low  rumblings  earth's  regions  under ; 

And  sometimes  like  a  gentle  whispering 

Of  all  the  secrets  of  some  wondrous  thing 

That  breathes  about  us  in  the  vacant  air ; 

So  that  we  look  around  with  prying  stare, 

Perhaps  to  see  shapes  of  light,  aerial  limning  ; 

And  catch  soft  floatings  from  a  faint-heard  hymning ; 

To  see  the  laurel-wreath,  on  high  suspended, 

That  is  to  crown  our  name  when  life  is  ended. 


118  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Sometimes  it  gives  a  glory  to  the  voice, 
And  from  the  heart  up-springs,  rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 
Sounds  which  will  reach  the  Framer  of  all  things, 
And  die  away  in  ardent  mutterings. 

No  one  who  once  the  glorious  sun  has  seen. 
And  all  the  clouds,  and  felt  his  bosom  clean 
For  his  great  Maker's  presence,  but  must  know 
What  't  is  I  mean,  and  feel  his  being  glow  : 
Therefore  no  insult  will  I  give  his  spirit, 
By  telling  what  he  sees  from  native  merit. 

O  Poesy !  for  thee  I  hold  my  pen. 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 

Of  thy  wide  heaven — should  I  rather  kneel 

Upon  some  mountain-top  until  I  feel 

A  glowing  splendor  round  about  me  hung, 

And  echo  back  the  voice  of  thine  own  tongue  ? 

O  Poesy  !  for  thee  I  grasp  my  pen 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 

Of  thy  wide  heaven ;  yet,  to  my  ardent  prayer, 

Yield  from  thy  sanctuary  some  clear  air, 

Smooth'd  for  intoxication  by  the  breath 

Of  flowering  bays,  that  I  n)ay  die  a  death 

Of  luxury,  and  my  young  spirit  follow 

The  morning  sunbeams  to  the  great  Apollo, 

Like  a  fresh  sacrifice ;  or,  if  I  can  bear 

The  o'erwhelming  sweets,  't  will  bring  to  me  the  fair 

Visions  of  all  places  :  a  bowery  nook 

Will  be  elysium — an  eternal  book 

Whence  I  may  copy  many  a  lovely  saying 

Amid  the  leaves,  and  flowers — about  the  playing 

Of  nymphs  in  woods,  and  fountains  ;  and  the  shade 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  119 


Keeping  a  silence  round  a  sleeping  maid ; 
And  many  a  verse  from  so  strange  influence 
That  we  must  ever  wonder  how,  and  whence 
It  came.     Also  imaginings  will  hover 
Round  my  fire-side,  and  haply  there  discover 
Vistas  of  solemn  beauty,  where  I'd  wander 
In  happy  silence,  like  the  clear  Meander 
Through  its  lone  gales ;  and  where  I  found  a  spot 
Of  awfuUer  shade,  or  an  enchanted  grot. 
Or  a  green  hill  o'erspread  with  chequer 'd  dress 
Of  flowers,  and  fearful  from  its  loveliness. 
Write  on  my  tablets  all  that  was  permitted, 
All  that  was  for  our  human  senses  fitted. 
Then  the  events  of  this  wide  world  I  'd  seize 
Like  a  strong  giant,  and  my  spirit  tease 
Till  at  its  shoulders  it  should  proudly  see 
Wings  to  find  out  an  immortality. 

Stop  and  consider  !  life  is  but  a  day ; 
A  fragile  dewdrop  on  its  perilous  way 
From  a  tree's  summit ;  a  poor  Indian's  sleep 
While  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous  steep 
Of  Montmorenci.     Why  so  sad  a  moan? 
Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unblown  ; 
The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale; 
The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil ; 
A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air  ; 
A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or  care, 
Riding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 

O  for  ten  years,  that  I  may  overwhelm 
Myself  in  poesy  !  so  I  may  do  the  deed 
That  my  own  soul  has  to  itself  decreed. 


120  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Then  I  will  pass  the  countries  that  I  see 

In  long  perspective,  and  continually 

Taste  their  pure  fountains.     First  the  realm  I'll  pass 

Of  Flora,  and  old  Pan :  sleep  in  the  grass, 

Feed  upon  apples  red,  and  strawberries. 

And  choose  each  pleasure  that  my  fancy  sees, 

Catch  the  white-handed  nymphs  in  shady  places. 

To  woo  sweet  kisses  from  averted  faces, — 

Play  with  their  fingers,  touch  their  shoulders  white 

Into  a  pretty  shrinking  with  a  bite 

As  hard  as  lips  can  make  it :  till  agreed, 

A  lovely  tale  of  human  life  we  '11  read. 

And  one  will  teach  a  tame  dove  how  it  best 

May  fan  the  cool  air  gently  o'er  my  rest : 

Another,  bending  o'er  her  nimble  tread. 

Will  set  a  green  robe  floating  round  her  head. 

And  still  will  dance  with  ever-varied  ease. 

Smiling  upon  the  flowers  and  the  trees ; 

Another  will  entice  me  on,  and  on. 

Through  almond  blossoms  and  rich  cinnamon  ; 

Till  in  the  bosom  of  a  leafy  world 

We  rest  in  silence,  like  two  gems  uocurl'd 

In  the  recesses  of  a  pearly  shell. 

And  can  I  ever  bid  these  joys  farewell  ? 

Yes,  I  must  pass  them  for  a  nobler  life, 

Where  I  may  find  the  agonies,  the  strife 

Of  human  liearts  :  for  lo  !  I  see  afar, 

O'er-sailing  the  blue  cragginess,  a  car 

And  steeds  with  streamy  manes — the  charioteer 

Looks  out  upon  the  winds  with  glorious  fear : 

And  now  the  numerous  tramplings  quiver  lightly 

Along  a  huge  cloud's  ridge  ;  and  now  with  sprightly 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  121 

Wheel  downward  come  they  into  fresher  skies, 

Tipt  round  with  silver  from  the  sun's  bright  eyes. 

Still  downward  with  capacious  whirl  they  glide  j 

And  now  I  see  them  on  a  green-hill  side 

In  breezy  rest  among  the  nodding  stalks. 

The  charioteer  with  wondrous  gesture  talks 

To  the  trees  and  mountains ;  and  there  soon  appear 

Shapes  of  delight,  of  mystery,  and  fear, 

Passing  along  before  a  dusky  space 

Made  by  some  mighty  oaks :  as  they  would  chase 

Some  ever-fleeting  music,  on  they  sweep. 

Lo  !  how  they  murmur,  laugh,  and  smile,  and  w^i^ ; 

Some  with  upholden  hand  and  mouth  severe  j 

Some  with  their  faces  muffled  to  the  ear 

Between  their  arms ;  some  clear  in  youthful  bloom, 

Go  glad  and  smilingly  athwart  the  gloom  ; 

Some  looking  back,  and  some  with  upward  gaze  ; 

Tes,  thousands  in  a  thousand  different  ways 

Flit  onward — now  a  lovely  wreath  of  girls 

Dancing  their  sleek  hair  into  tangled  curls ; 

And  now  broad  wings.     Most  awfully  intent 

The  driver  of  those  steeds  is  foiwvard  bent, 

And  seems  to  listen  :  O  that  I  might  know 

All  that  he  writes  with  such  a  hurrying  glow ! 

The  visions  all  are  fled^the  car  is  fled 
Into  the  light  of  heaven,  and  in  their  stead 
A  sense  of  real  things  comes  doubly  strong, 
And,  like  a  muddy  stream,  would  bear  along 
My  soul  to  nothingness :  but  I  will  strive 
Against  all  doubtings,  and  will  keep  alive 
The  thought  of  that  same  chariot,  and  the  strange 
Journey  it  went. 

PART   II.  7 


122  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Is  there  so  small  a  range 
In  the  present  strength  of  manhood,  that  the  high 
Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As  she  was  wont  of  old  ?  prepare  her  steeds, 
Paw  up  against  the  light,  and  do  strange  deeds 
Upon  the  clouds  ?     Has  she  not  shown  us  all  ? 
From  the  clear  space  of  ether,  to  the  small 
Breath  of  new  buds  unfolding  ?     From  the  meaning 
Of  Jove's  large  eyebi'ow,  to  the  tender  greening 
Of  April  meadows  ?     Hez'e  her  altar  shone, 
E'en  in  this  isle  ;  and  who  could  paragon 
The  fervid  choir  that  lifted  up  a  noise 
Of  harmony,  to  where  it  aye  will  poise 
Its  mighty  self  of  convoluting  sound, 
Huge  as  a  planet,  and  like  that  roll  round, 
Eternally  around  a  dizzy  void  ? 
Ay,  in  those  days  the  Muses  were  nigh  cloy'd 
With  honors  ;  nor  had  any  other  care 
Than  to  sing  out  and  soothe  their  wavy  hair. 

Could  all  this  be  forgotten  ?     Yes,  a  scliism 
Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism. 
Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 
Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  understand 
His  glories ;  with  a  puling  infant's  force 
They  sway'd  about  upon  a  rocking-horse, 
And  thought  it  Pegasus.     Ah,  dismal-soul'd  ! 
The  winds  of  heaven  blew,  the  ocean  roU'd 
Its  gathering  waves — ye  felt  it  not.     The  blue 
Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 
Of  summer  night  collected  still  to  make 
The  morning  precious  :  Beauty  was  awake  ! 
Why  were  ye  not  awake  ?     But  ye  were  dead 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  123 

To  things  ye  knew  not  of, — were  closely  wed 
To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 
And  compass  vile :  so  that  ye  taught  a  school 
vT'f  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and  fit, 
Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit, 
Their  verses  tallied.     Easy  was  the  task  : 
A  thousand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 
Of  Poesy.     Ill-fated,  impious  race  ! 
That  blasphemed  the  bright  Lyrist  to  his  face, 
And  did  not  know  it, — no,  they  went  about, 
Holding  a  poor,  decrepid  standard  out, 
Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottoes,  and  in  large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau  ! 

O  ye  whose  charge 
It  is  to  hover  round  our  pleasant  hills  ! 
Whose  congregated  majesty  so  fills 
My  boundly  reverence,  that  I  cannot  trace 
Your  hallow'd  names,  in  this  unholy  place. 
So  near  those  common  folk ;  did  not  their  shames 
Aflfright  you  ?     Did  our  old  lamenting  Thames 
Delight  you  !  did  ye  never  cluster  round 
Delicious  Avon,  with  a  mournful  sound. 
And  weep  ?     Or  did  ye  wholly  bid  adieu 
To  regions  where  no  nrtore  the  laurel  grew  ? 
Or  did  ye  stay  to  give  a  welcoming 
To  some  lone  spirits  who  could  proudly  sing 
Their  youth  away,  and  die  ?     'T  was  even  so : 
But  let  me  think  away  those  times  of  wo: 
Now  't  is  a  fairer  season  ;  ye  have  breathed 
Rich  benedictions  o'er  us  ;  ye  have  wreathed 
Fresh  garlands :  for  sweet  music  has  been  heard 
In  many  places ;  some  has  been  upstirr'd 


124  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

From  out  its  crystal  dwelling  in  a  lake, 

By  a  swan's  ebon  bill  ;   from  a  thick  brake, 

Nested  and  quiet  in  a  valley  mild, 

Bubbles  a  pipe  ;  fine  sounds  are  floating  wild 

About  the  earth  :  happy  are  ye  and  glad. 

These  things  are,  doubtless :  yet  in  truth  we've  had 

Strange  thunders  from  the  potency  of  song  ; 

Mingled  indeed  with  what  is  sweet  and  strong, 

From  majesty  :  but  in  clear  truth  the  themes 

Are  ugly  cubs,  the  Poets'  Polyphemes 

Disturbing  the  grand  sea.     A  drainless  shower 

Of  light  is  poesy  ;   't  is  the  supreme  of  power ; 

'T  is  might  half  slumbering  on  its  own  right  arm. 

The  very  archings  of  her  eyelids  charm 

A  thousand  willing  agents  to  obey. 

And  still  she  governs  with  the  mildest  sway : 

But  strength  alone  though  of  the  Muses  born 

Is  like  a  fallen  angel  :  trees  uptorn. 

Darkness,  and  worms,  and  shrouds,  and  sepulchres 

Delight  it ;  for  it  feeds  upon  the  burrs 

And  thorns  of  life  ;  forgetting  the  great  end 

Of  poesy,  that  it  should  be  a  friend 

To  soothe  the  cares,  and  lift  the  thoughts  of  man. 

Yet  I  rejoice  :  a  myrtle  fairer  than 
E'er  grew  in  Paphos,  from  the  bitter  weeds 
Lifts  its  sweet  head  into  the  air,  and  feeds 
A  silent  space  with  ever-sprouting  green. 
All  tenderest  birds  there  find  a  pleasant  screen. 
Creep  through  the  shade  with  jaunty  fluttering. 
Nibble  the  little  cupped  flowers  and  sing. 
Then  let  us  clear  away  the  choking  tiiorns 
From  round  its  gentle  stem ;  let  the  young  fawns, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  125 

Yeaned  in  after-times,  when  we  are  flown, 
Find  a  fresh  sward  beneath  it,  overgrown 
With  simple  flowers  :  let  there  nothing  be 
More  boisterous  than  a  lover's  bended  knee  ; 
Naught  more  ungentle  than  the  placid  look 
Of  one  who  leans  upon  a  closed  book  ; 
Naught  more  untranquil  than  the  grassy  slopes 
Between  two  hills.     All  hail,  delightful  hopes! 
As  she  was  wont,  th'  imagination 
Into  most  lovely  labyrinths  will  be  gone. 
And  they  shall  be  accounted  poet  kings 
Who  simply  tell  the  most  heart-easing  things. 
O  may  these  joys  be  ripe  before  I  die  ! 

Will  not  some  say  that  I  presumptuously 
Have  spoken  ?  that  from  hastening  disgrace 
'T  were  better  far  to  hide  my  foolish  face  ? 
That  whining  boyhood  should  witli  reverence  bow 
Ere  the  dread  thunderbolt  could  reach  ?  How  ! 
If  I  do  hide  myself,  it  sure  shallbe 
In  the  very  fane,  the  light  of  Poesy : 
If  I  do  fall,  at  least  I  will  be  laid 
Beneath  the  silence  of  a  poplar  shade  ; 
And  over  me  the  grass  shall  be  smooth  shaven  ; 
And  there  shall  be  a  kind  memorial  graven. 
But  off,  Despondence  !  miserable  bane  ! 
They  should  not  know  thee,  who  athirst  to  gain 
A  noble  end,  are  thirsty  every  hour. 
What  though  I  am  not  wealthy  in  the  dower 
Of  spanning  wisdom ;  though  I  do  not  know 
The  shiftings  of  the  mighty  winds  that  blow 
Hither  and  thither  all  the  chanirintr  thoughts 
Of  man  ;  though  no  great  ministering  reason  sorts 


126  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Out  the  dark  mysteries  of  human  souls 
To  clear  conceiving :  yet  there  ever  rolls 
A  vast  idea  before  me,  and  I  glean 
Therefrom  my  liberty  ;  thence  too  I've  seen 
The  end  and  aim  of  Poesy.     'T  is  clear 
As  anything  most  true  ;  as  that  the  year 
Is  made  of  the  four  seasons — manifest 
As  a  large  cross,  some  old  cathedral's  crest, 
Lifted  to  the  white  clouds.     Therefore  should  I 
Be  but  the  essence  of  deformity, 
A  coward,  did  my  very  eyelids  wink 
At  speaking  out  what  I  have  dared  to  think. 
Ah  !  rather  let  me  like  a  madman  run 
Over  some  precipice  ;  let  the  hot  sun 
■  Melt  my  Dedalian  wings,  and  drive  me  down 
Convulsed  and  headlong  ?     Stay  !  an  inward  frown 
Of  conscience  bids  me  be  more  calm  awhile. 
An  ocean  dim,  sprinkled  with  many  an  isle, 
Spreads  awfully  before  me.     How  much  toil  ! 
How  many  days  !  what  desperate  turmoil ! 
Ere  I  can  have  explored  its  widenesses. 
Ah,  what  a  task !  upon  my  bended  knees, 
I  could  unsay  those — no,  impossible  ! 
Impossible ! 

For  sweet  relief  I  '11  dwell 
On  humbler  thoughts,  and  let  this  strange  assay 
Begun  in  gentleness  die  so  away. 
E'en  now  all  tumult  from  my  bosom  fades  : 
I  turn  full-hearted  to  the  friendly  aids 
That  smooth  the  path  of  honor  ;  brotherhood, 
And  friendliness,  the  nurse  of  mutual  good. 
The  hearty  grasp  that  sends  a  pleasant  sonnet 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  12T 


Into  the  brain  ere  one  can  think  upon  it ; 

The  silence  when  some  rhymes  are  coming  out ; 

And  when  they're  come,  the  very  pleasant  rout : 

The  message  certain  to  be  done  to-morrow. 

'T  is  perhaps  as  well  that  it  should  be  to  borrow 

Some  precious  book  from  out  its  snug  retreat, 

To  cluster  I'ound  it  when  we  next  shall  meet. 

Scarce  can  I  scribble  on  ;  for  lovely  airs 

Are  fluttering  round  the  room  like  doves  in  pairs ; 

Many  delights  of  that  glad  day  recalling, 

When  first  my  senses  caught  their  tender  falling. 

And  with  these  airs  come  forms  of  elegance 

Stooping  their  shoulders  o'er  a  horse's  prance, 

Careless,  and  grand — fingers  soft  and  round 

Parting  luxuriant  curls ;  and  the  swift  bound 

Of  Bacchus  from  his  chariot,  when  his  eye 

Made  Ariadne's  cheek  look  blushingly. 

Thus  I  remember  all  the  pleasant  flow 

Of  words  at  opening  a  portfolio. 

Things  such  as  these  are  ever  harbingers 

To  trains  of  peaceful  images  :  the  stirs 

Of  a  swan's  neck  unseen  among  the  rushes : 

A  linnet  starting  all  about  the  bushes : 

A  butterfly,  with  golden  wings  broad-parted. 

Nestling  a  rose,  convulsed  as  though  it  smarted 

With  over-pleasure — many,  many  more, 

Might  I  indulge  at  large  in  all  my  store 

Of  luxuries:  yet  I  must  not  forget 

Sleep,  quiet  with  his  poppy  coronet : 

For  what  there  may  be  worthy  in  these  rhymes 

I  partly  owe  to  him ;  and  thus,  the  chimes 

Of  friendly  voices  had  just  given  place 


128  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

To  as  sweet  a  silence,  when  1  'gan  retrace 

The  pleasant  day,  upon  a  couch  at  ease. 

It  was  a  poet's  house  who  keeps  tlie  keys 

Of  pleasure's  temple — round  about  were  hung 

The  glorious  features  of  the  bards  who  sung 

In  other  ages — cold  and  sacred  busts 

Smiled  at  each  other.     Happy  he  who  trusts 

To  clear  Futurity  his  darling  fame  ! 

Then  there  were  fauns  and  satyrs  taking  aim 

At  swelling  apples  with  a  frisky  leap 

And  reaching  fingers,  'mid  a  luscious  heap 

Of  vine-leaves.     Then  there  rose  to  view  a  fane 

Of  liney  marble,  and  thereto  a  train 

Of  nymphs  approaching  fairly  o'er  the  sward  : 

One,  loveliest,  holding  her  white  hand  toward 

The  dazzling  sun-rise  :  two  sisters  sweet 

Bending  their  graceful  figures  till  they  meet 

Over  the  trippings  of  a  little  child  : 

And  some  are  hearing,  eagerly,  the  wild 

Thrilling  liquidity  of  dewy  piping. 

See,  in  another  picture,  nymphs  are  wiping 

Cherishingly  Diana's  timorous  limbs; 

A  fold  of  lawny  mantle  dabbling  swims 

At  the  bath's  edge,  and  keeps  a  gentle  motion 

With  the  subsiding  crystal  :  as  when  ocean 

Heaves  calmly  its  broad  swelling  smoothness  o'er 

Its  rocky  marge,  and  balances  once  more 

The  patient  weeds ;  that  now  unshent  by  foam 

Feel  all  about  their  undulating  home. 

Sappho's  meek  head  was  there  half  smiling  down 

At  nothing  ;  just  as  though  the  earnest  frown 

Of  over-tliinking  had  that  moment  gone 

From  off  her  brow,  and  left  her  all  alone. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  129 

Great  Alfred's  too,  with  anxious,  pitying  eyes, 
As  if  he  always  listen'd  to  the  sighs 
Of  the  goaded  world  ;  and  Kosciusko's,  worn 
By  horrid  suffrance — mightily  forlorn. 

Petrarch,  outstepping  from  the  shady  green, 

Starts  at  the  sight  of  Laura  ;  nor  can  wean 

His  eyes  from  her  sweet  face.     Most  happy  they ! 

For  over  them  was  seen  a  free  display 

Of  outspread  wings,  and  from  between  them  shone 

The  face  of  Poesy  :  from  off  her  throne 

She  overlook'd  things  that  I  scarce  could  tell, 

The  very  sense  of  where  I  was  might  well 

Keep  sleep  aloof:  but  more  than  that  there  came 

Thought  after  thought  to  nourish  up  the  flame 

Within  my  breast ;  so  that  the  morning  light 

Surprised  me  even  from  a  sleepless  night ; 

And  up  I  rose  refresh'd,  and  glad,  and  gay, 

Resolving  to  begin  that  very  day 

These  lines  ;  and  howsoever  they  be  done, 

I  leave  them  as  a  father  does  his  son. 


LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN. 

Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone. 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine  ? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
7* 


130  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Of  venison  ?  O  generous  food  ! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, — 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new  old-sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine. 
And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 


ROBIN    HOOD. 

TO    A    FRIEND. 

No  !  those  days  are  gone  away, 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  grey. 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years  : 
Many  times  have  Winter's  shears. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  131 


Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases. 

No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more. 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more  ; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh, 
Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon, 
Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you. 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you  ; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold  ; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan, 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent ; 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale, 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din  ; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn  ; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  "gren6  shawej" 


132  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  tufted  grave, 
And  if  Marian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze  : 
He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fall'n  beneath  the  dock-yard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas  ; 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her — strange  !  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money  ! 

So  it  is ;  yet  let  us  sing 
Honor  to  the  old  bow-string  ! 
Honor  to  the  bugle-horn  ! 
Honor  to  the  woods  unshorn  ! 
Honor  to  the  Lincoln  green  ! 
Honor  to  the  archer  keen  ! 
Honor  to  tight  Little  John, 
And  the  horse  he  rode  upon  ! 
Honor  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood  ! 
Honor  to  Maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood  clan  ! 
Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  133 


SONNETS. 


TO    MY   BROTHER    GEORGE. 


Many  the  wonders  I  this  day  have  seen  : 
The  sun,  when  first  he  kist  away  the  tears 
That  fiU'd  the  eyes  of  Morn  ; — the  laurel'd  peers 

Who  from  the  feathery  gold  of  evening  lean  ; — 

The  Ocean  with  its  vastness,  its  blue  green, 

Its  ships,  its  rocks,  its  caves,  its  hopes,  its  fears, — 
Its  voice  mysterious,  which  whoso  hears 

Must  think  on  what  will  be,  and  what  has  been. 

E'en  now,  dear  George,  while  this  for  you  I  write, 
Cynthia  is  from  her  silken  curtains  peeping 

So  scantly,  that  it  seems  her  bridal  night, 
And  she  her  half-discover'd  revels  keeping. 

But  what,  without  the  social  thought  of  thee, 

Would  be  the  wonders  of  the  sky  and  sea  ? 


Had  I  a  man's  fair  form,  then  might  my  sighs 
Be  echoed  swiftly  through  that  ivory  shell 
Thine  ear,  and  find  thy  gentle  heart ;  so  well 

Would  passion  arm  me  for  the  enterprise  : 


134  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

But  ah  !  I  am  no  knight  whose  foeman  dies ; 
No  cuirass  glistens  on  my  bosom's  swell ; 
I  am  no  happy  shepherd  of  the  dell 

Whose  lips  have  trembled  with  a  maiden's  eyes. 

Yet  must  I  doat  upon  thee, — call  thee  sweet, 
Sweeter  by  far  than  Hybla's  honey'd  roses 
When  steep'd  in  dew  rich  to  intoxication. 

Ah !  I  will  taste  that  dew,  for  me  't  is  meet, 
And  when  the  moon  her  pallid  face  discloses, 
I'll  gather  some  by  spells,  and  incantation. 


O  Solitude  !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell. 
Let  it  riot  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky  buildings:  climb  with  me  the  steep, — 

Nature's  observatory — whence  the  dell, 

Its  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell. 
May  seem  a  span  ;  let  me  thy  vigils  keep 
'Mongst  boughs  pavilion'd,  where  the  deer's  swift  leap 

Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  foxglove  bell. 

But  though  I'll  gladly  trace  these  scenes  with  thee, 
Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  innocent  mind. 

Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  refined, 
Is  my  soul's  pleasure  ;  and  it  sure  must  be 

Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human  kind. 

When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 


How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time ! 
A  few  of  them  have  ever  been  the  food 
Of  my  delighted  fancy, — I  could  brood 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  133 

Over  their  beauties,  earthly,  or  sublime  : 
And  often,  when  I  sit  me  down  to  rhyme, 

These  will  in  throngs  before  my  mind  intrude : 

But  no  confusion,  no  disturbance  rude 
Do  they  occasion  ;   't  is  a  pleasing  chime. 
So  the  unnumber'd  sounds  that  evening  store  ; 

The  songs  of  birds — the  whispering  of  the  leaves — 
The  voice  of  waters — the  great  bell  that  heaves 

With  solemn  sound, — and  thousand  others  more, 
That  distance  of  recognizance  bereaves. 

Make  pleasing  music,  and  not  wild  uproar. 


TO    A    FRIEND    WHO    SENT    ME    SOME    ROSES. 

As  late  I  rambled  in  the  happy  fields, 

What  time  the  skylark  shakes  the  tremulous  dew 
From  his  lush  clover  covert ; — when  anew 

Adventurous  knights  take  up  their  dinted  shields  : 

I  saw  the  sweetest  flower  wild  nature  yields, 

A  fresh-blown  musk-rose ;  't  was  the  first  that  threw 
Its  sweets  upon  the  summer :  graceful  it  grew 

As  is  the  wand  that  queen  Titania  wields. 

And,  as  I  feasted  on  its  fragrancy, 

I  thought  the  garden-rose  it  far  excell'd ; 

But  when,  O  Wells  !  thy  roses  came  to  me, 
I\ly  sense  with  their  deliciousness  was  spell'd  : 

Soft  voices  had  they,  that  with  tender  plea 

Whisper'd  of  peace,  and  truth,  and  friendliness  unquiird. 


136  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

TO    G.    A.    W. 

Nymph  of  the  downward  smile  and  sidelong  glance  ! 

In  what  diviner  moments  of  the  day 

Art  thou  most  lovely  ?  when  gone  far  astray 
Into  the  labyrinths  of  sweet  utterance  ? 
Or  when  serenely  wandering  in  a  trance 

Of  sober  thought  ?     Or  when  starting  away, 

With  careless  robe  to  meet  the  morning  ray, 
Thou  sparest  the  flowers  in  thy  mazy  dance  ? 
Haply  't  is  when  thy  ruby  lips  part  sweetly, 

And  so  remain,  because  thou  listenest: 
But  thou  to  please  wert  nurtured  so  completely 

That  I  can  never  tell  what  mood  is  best, 
I  shall  as  soon  pronounce  which  Grace  more  neatly 

Trips  it  before  Apollo  than  tlie  rest. 


WRITTEN    ON    THE    DAY    THAT    MR.    LEIGH    HUNT    LEFT    PRISON. 

What  though,  for  showing  truth  to  flatter'd  state, 

Kind  Hunt  was  shut  in  prison,  yet  has  he, 

In  his  immortal  spirit,  been  as  free 
As  the  sky-searching  lark,  and  as  elate, 
Minion  of  grandeur !  think  you  he  did  wait  ? 

Think  you  he  naught  but  prison-walls  did  see. 

Till,  so  unwilling,  thou  unturn'dst  the  key  ? 
Ah,  no  !  far  happier,  nobler  was  his  fate  ! 
In  Spenser's  halls  he  stray'd,  and  bowers  fair, 

Culling  enchanted  flowers ;  and  he  flew 
With  daring  Milton  through  the  fields  of  air : 

To  regions  of  his  own  his  genius  true 
Took  happy  flights.     Who  shall  his  fame  impair 

When  thou  art  dead,  and  all  thy  wretched  crew  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  137 

TO    MY    BROTHERS. 

Small,  busy  flames  play  through  the  fresh-laid  coals, 

And  their  faint  cracklings  o'er  our  silence  creep 

Like  whispers  of  the  household  gods  that  keep 
A  gentle  empire  o'er  fraternal  souls. 
And  while,  for  rhymes,  I  search  around  the  poles, 

Your  eyes  are  fix'd,  as  in  poetic  sleep, 

Upon  the  lore  so  voluble  and  deep, 
That  aye  at  fall  of  night  our  care  condoles. 
This  is  your  birth-day,  Tom,  and  I  rejoice 

That  thus  it  passes  smoothly,  quietly  : 
Many  such  eves  of  gently  whispering  noise 

May  we  together  pass,  and  calmly  try 
What  are  this  world's  true  joys, — ere  the  great  Voice 

From  its  fair  face  shall  bid  our  spirits  fly. 
JVbvember  IS,  1816. 


ON    FIRST    LOOKING    INTO    CHAPMAN  S    HOMER. 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen  ; 
.  Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 

Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 

Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 


138  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


ON  LEAVING  SOME  FRIENDS  AT  AN  EARLY  HOUR. 

Give  me  a  golden  pen,  and  let  me  lean 

On  heap'd-up  flowers,  in  regions  clear,  and  far  ; 
Bring  me  a  tablet  whiter  than  a  star. 

Or  hand  of  hymning  angel,  when  't  is  seen 

The  silver  strings  of  heavenly  harp  atween. 
And  let  there  glide  by  many  a  pearly  car, 
Pink  robes,  and  wavy  hair,  and  diamond  jar, 

And  half-discover'd  wings,  and  glances  keen. 

The  while  let  music  wander  round  my  ears, 
And  as  it  reaches  each  delicious  ending. 
Let  me  write  down  a  line  of  glorious  tone, 

And  full  of  many  wonders  of  the  spheres  : 
For  what  a  height  my  spirit  is  contending  ! 
'Tis  not  content  so  soon  to  be  alone. 


Keen  fitful  gusts  are  whispering  here  and  there 
Among  the  bushes,  half  leafless  and  dry  ; 
The  stars  look  very  cold  about  the  sky. 
And  I  have  many  miles  on  foot  to  fare. 
Yet  feel  I  little  of  the  cool  bleak  air, 
Or  of  the  dead  leaves  rustling  drearily, 
Or  of  those  silver  lamps  that  burn  on  high. 
Or  of  the  distance  from  home's  pleasant  lair  : 
For  I  am  brimfull  of  the  friendliness 
That  in  a  little  cottage  I  have  found ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  139 

Of  fair-hair'd  Milton's  eloquent  distress, 

And  all  his  love  for  gentle  Lycid'  drown'd ; 

Of  lovely  Laura  in  her  light  green  dress; 
And  faithful  Petrarch  gloriously  crovvn'd. 


To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a  prayer 

Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 

Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content, 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 

And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment  ? 

Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 

Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career, 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by : 

E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 


ADDRESSED    TO    HAYDON. 

HiGH-MiNDEDNESS,  a  jealousy  for  good, 

A  loving-kindness  for  the  great  man's  fame, 
Dwells  here  and  there  with  people  of  no  name, 

In  noisome  alley,  and  in  pathless  wood : 

And  where  we  think  the  truth  least  understood, 
Oft  may  be  found  a  "  singleness  of  aim," 
That  ought  to  frighten  into  hooded  shame 

A  money -mongering,  pitiable  brood. 


140  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

How  glorious  this  affection  for  the  cause 
Of  steadfast  genius,  toiling  gallantly  ! 

What  when  a  stout  unbending  champion  awes 
Envy,  and  malice  to  their  native  sty  ? 

Unnumber'd  souls  breathe  out  a  still  applause, 
Proud  to  behold  him  in  his  country's  eye. 


ADDRESSED    TO    THE    SAME. 

Great  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning  : 

He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake. 

Who  on  Helvellyn's  summit,  wide  awake, 
Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangel's  wing : 
He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring. 

The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  Freedom's  sake  ; 

And  lo !  whose  steadfastness  would  never  take 
A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whispering. 
And  other  spirits  there  are  standing  apart 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come ; 
These,  these  will  give  the  world  another  heart 

And  other  pulses.     Hear  ye  not  the  hum 
Of  mighty  workings  ? 

Listen  awhile,  ye  nations,  and  be  dumb. 


ON    THE    GRASSHOPPER   AND    CRICKET. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  141 


That  is  the  grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed^ 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 
Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 
December  30,  IS IG. 


TO  KOSCIUSKO. 

Good  Kosciusko  !  thy  great  name  alone 

Is  a  full  harvest  whence  to  reap  high  feeling  ; 
It  comes  upon  us  like  the  glorious  pealing 

Of  the  wide  spheres — an  everlasting  tone. 

And  now  it  tells  me,  that  in  worlds  unknown, 

The  names  of  heroes,  burst  from  clouds  concealing, 
And  changed  to  harmonies,  for  ever  stealing 

Through  cloudless  blue,  and  round  each  silver  throne. 

It  tells  me  too,  that  on  a  happy  day, 

When  some  good  spirit  walks  upon  the  earth, 
Thy  name  with  Alfred's,  and  the  great  of  yore. 

Gently  commingling,  gives  tremendous  birth 

To  a  loud  hymn,  that  sounds  far,  far  away 
To  where  the  great  God  lives  for  evermore. 


142  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Happy  is  England !  I  could  be  content 
To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own ; 
To  feel  no  other  breezes  than  are  blown 

Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances  blent ; 

Yet  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  languishment 
For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 
To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a  throne, 
And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling  meant. 

Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters  ; 
Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me, 
Enough  their  whitest  arms  in  silence  clinging : 
Yet  do  I  often  warmly  burn  to  see 
Beauties  of  deeper  glance,  and  hear  their  singing, 

And  float  with  them  about  the  summer  waters. 


THE    HUMAN    SEASONS. 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year ; 

There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man  : 

He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 

Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span  : 

He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 

Spring's  honey'd  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 

To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  nigh 

Is  nearest  unto  heaven  :  quiet  coves 

His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 

He  furleth  close ;  contented  so  to  look 

On  mists  in  idleness — to  let  fair  things 

Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 

He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 

Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  H3 


ON    A    PICTURE    OF    LEANDER. 


Come  hither,  all  sweet  maidens  soberly, 
Down-looking  aye,  and  with  a  chasten'd  light, 
Hid  in  the  fringes  of  your  eyelids  white. 
And  meekly  let  your  fair  hands  joined  be, 
As  if  so  gentle  that  ye  could  not  see, 
Untouch'd,  a  victim  of  your  beauty  bright, 
Sinking  away  to  his  young  spirit's  night, 
Sinking  bewilder'd  'mid  the  dreary  sea  : 
'T  is  young  Leander  toiling  to  his  death ; 
Nigh  swooning,  he  doth  purse  his  weary  lips 
For  Hero's  cheek,  and  smiles  against  her  smile. 
O  horrid  dream !  see  how  his  body  dips 
Dead-heavy  ;  arms  and  shoulders  gleam  awhile  : 
He's  gone  ;   up  bubbles  all  his  amorous  breath  ! 


TO    AILSA    ROCK. 

Hearken,  thou  craggy  ocean  pyramid ! 

Give  answer  from  thy  voice,  the  sea-fowl's  screams  ! 

When  were  thy  shoulders  mantled  in  huge  streams ! 

When,  from  the  sun,  was  thy  broad  forehead  hid  ? 

How  long  is  't  since  the  mighty  power  bid 

Thee  heave  to  airy  sleep  from  fathom  dreams? 

Sleep  in  the  lap  of  thunder  or  sun-beams. 

Or  when  grey  clouds  are  thy  cold  cover-lid  ? 

Thou  answer'st  not,  for  thou  art  dead  asleep ! 

Thy  life  is  but  two  dead  eternities — 

The  last  in  air,  the  former  in  the  deep  ; 

First  with  the  whales,  last  with  the  eagle-skies — 

Drown'd  wast  thou  till  an  earthquake  made  thee  steep, 

Another  cannot  wake  thy  giant  size. 


144  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


EPISTLES. 


Among  the  rest  a  shepherd  (though  but  young 
Yet  hartned  to  his  pipe)  with  all  the  skill 
His  few  yeeres  could,  began  to  fit  his  quill. 

Britannia's  Pastorals. — Browne. 

TO    GEORGE    FELTON    MATHEW. 

Sweet  are  the  pleasures  that  to  verse  belong, 

And  doubly  sweet  a  brotherhood  in  song ; 

Nor  can  remembrance,  Mathew  !  bring  to  view 

A  fate  more  pleasing,  a  delight  more  true 

Than  that  in  which  the  brother  poets  joy'd. 

Who,  with  combined  powers,  their  wit  cmploy'd 

To  raise  a  trophy  to  the  drama's  muses. 

The  thought  of  this  great  partnership  diffuses 

Over  the  genius-loving  heart,  a  feeling 

Of  all  that 's  high,  and  great,  and  good,  and  healing. 

Too  partial  friend  !  fain  would  I  follow  thee 

Past  each  horizon  of  fine  poesy  ; 

Fain  would  I  echo  back  each  pleasant  note 

As  o'er  Sicilian  seas,  clear  anthems  float 

'Mong  the  light  skimming  gondolas  far  parted. 

Just  when  the  sun  his  farewell  beam  has  darted  : 

But 't  is  impossible  ;  far  different  cares 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  145 

Beckon  me  sternly  from  soft  "  Lydian  airs," 

And  hold  my  faculties  so  long  in  thrall, 

That  I  am  oft  in  doubt  whether  at  all 

I  shall  again  see  Phoebus  in  the  morning  : 

Or  flushed  Aurora  in  the  roseate  dawning  ! 

Or  a  white  Naiad  in  a  rippling  stream  ; 

Or  a  rapt  seraph  in  a  moonlight  beam  ; 

Or  again  witness  what  with  thee  I  've  seen, 

The  dew  by  fairy  feet  swept  from  the  green. 

After  a  night  of  some  quaint  jubilee 

Which  every  elf  and  fay  had  come  to  see  : 

When  bright  processions  took  their  airy  march 

Beneath  the  curved  moon's  triumphal  arch. 

But  might  I  now  each  passing  moment  give 

To  the  coy  muse,  with  me  she  would  not  live 

In  this  dark  city,  nor  would  condescend 

'Mid  contradictions  her  delights  to  lend. 

Should  e'er  the  fine-eyed  maid  to  me  be  kind, 

Ah!  surely  it  must  be  whene'er  I  find 

Some  flowery  spot,  sequester'd,  wild,  romantic, 

That  often  must  have  seen  a  poet  frantic ; 

Where  oaks,  that  erst  the  Druid  knew,  are  growing. 

And  flowers,  the  glory  of  one  day,  are  blowing ; 

Where  the  dark-leaved  laburnum's  drooping  clusters 

Reflect  athwart  the  stream  their  yellow  lustres. 

And  intertwined  the  cassia's  arms  unite. 

With  its  own  drooping  buds,  but  very  white. 

Where  on  one  side  are  covert  branches  hung, 

'Mong  which  the  nightingales  have  always  sung 

[n  leafy  quiet ;  where  to  pry,  aloof 

Atween  the  pillars  of  the  sylvan  roof, 

Would  be  to  find  where  violet  beds  were  nestling, 

And  where  the  bee  with  cowslip  bells  was  wrestling. 

PART  II.  8 


146  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

There  must  be  too  a  ruin  dark  and  gloomy, 

To  say  "  Joy  not  too  much  in  all  that 's  bloomy." 

Yet  this  is  vain — O  Mathew  !  lend  thy  aid 
To  find  a  place  where  I  may  greet  ihe  maid — 
AVhere  we  may  soft  humanity  put  on, 
And  sit,  and  rhyme,  and  think  on  Cliatterton  ; 
And  that  warm-hearted  Shakspeare  sent  to  meet  him 
Four  laurell'd  spirits,  lieavenward  to  entreat  him. 
With  reverence  would  we  speak  of  all  the  sages 
Who  have  left  streaks  of  light  athwart  their  ages ; 
And  thou  shouldst  moralize  on  Milton's  blindness, 
And  mourn  the  fearful  dearth  of  human  kindness 
To  those  who  strove  with  the  bright  golden  wing 
Of  genius,  to  flap  away  each  sting 
Thrown  by  the  pitiless  world.     We  next  could  tell 
Of  those  who  in  the  cause  of  freedom  fell  ; 
Of  our  own  Alfred,  of  Helvetian  Tell  ; 
Of  him  whose  name  to  every  heart  '"s  a  solace, 
High-minded  and  unbending  William  Wallace. 
While  to  the  rugged  north  our  musing  turns, 
We  well  might  drop  a  tear  for  him  and  Burns. 
Felton  !  without  incitements  such  as  these, 
How  vain  for  me  the  niggard  Muse  to  tease  ! 
For  thee,  she  will  thy  every  dwelling  grace, 
•  And  make  "  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  :" 

For  thou  wast  once  a  flow'ret  blooming  wild. 
Close  to  the  source,  bright,  pure,  and  undefiled. 
Whence  gush  the  streams  of  song  :  in  happy  horn- 
Came  chaste  Diana  from  her  shady  bower, 
Just  as  the  sun  was  from  the  east  uprising  ; 
And,  as  for  iiim  some  gift  she  was  devising. 
Beheld  thee,  pluck'd  thee,  cast  thee  in  ihe  stream 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  147 

To  meet  her  glorious  brother's  greeting  beam. 
I  marvel  much  that  thou  hast  never  told 
How,  from  a  flower,  into  a  fish  of  gold 
Apollo  changed  thee  :  how  thou  next  didst  seem 
A  black-eyed  swan  upon  the  widening  stream; 
And  when  thou  first  didst  in  that  mirror  trace 
Tiie  placid  features  of  a  human  face ; 
That  thou  hast  never  told  thy  travels  strange. 
And  all  tlie  wonders  of  tlie  mazy  range 
O'er  pebbly  crystal,  and  o'er  golden  sands  ; 
Kissing  thy  daily  food  from  Naiads'  pearly  hands. 
A''ovember,  IS  15. 


TO    MY    BROTHER    GEORGE. 

Full  many  a  dreary  hour  have  I  past, 
My  brain  bewilder'd,  and  my  mind  o'ercast 
With  heaviness ;  in  seasons  \v\]^n  I've  tliought 
No  sphery  strains  by  me  could  e'er  be  caught 
From  the  blue  dome,  though  I  to  dimness  gaze 
On  the  far  depth  where  sheeted  lightning  plays; 
Or,  on  the  wavy  grass  outstretch'd  supinely. 
Pry  'mong  the  stars,  to  strive  to  think  divinely  : 
That  I  should  never  hear  Apollo's  song, 
Though  feathery  clouds  were  floating  all  along 
The  purple  west,  and,  two  bright  streaks  between, 
The  golden  lyre  itself  were  dimly  seen  : 
That  the  still  murmur  of  the  honey-bee 
Would  never  teach  a  rural  song  to  me  : 
That  the  bright  glance  from  beauty's  eyelids  slanting 
Would  never  make  a  lay  of  mine  enchanting. 


148  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Or  warm  my  breast  with  ardor  to  unfold 

Some  tale  of  love  and  arms  in  time  of  old. 

But  there  are  times,  when  those  that  love  the  bay, 

Fly  from  all  sorrowing  far,  far  away  ; 

A  sudden  glow  comes  on  them,  naught  they  see 

In  water,  earth,  or  air,  but  poesy. 

It  has  been  said,  dear  George,  and  true  I  hold  it 

(For  knightly  Spenser  to  Libertas  told  it). 

That  when  a  Poet  is  in  such  a  trance, 

In  air  he  sees  white  coursers  paw  and  prance, 

Bestridden  of  gay  knights,  in  gay  apparel. 

Who  at  each  other  tilt  in  playful  quarrel  ; 

And  what  we,  ignorantly,  sheet-lightning  call, 

Is  the  swift  opening  of  their  wide  portal. 

When  the  bright  warder  blows  his  trumpet  clear 

Whoso  tones  reach  naught  on  earth  but  poet's  ear. 

When  these  enchanted  portals  open  wide, 

And  through  the. light  the  horsemen  swiftly  glide, 

The  Poet's  eye  can  reach  those  golden  halls. 

And  view  the  glory  of  J;heir  festivals : 

Their  ladies  fair,  that  in  the  distance  seem 

Fit  for  the  silvering  of  a  seraph's  dream  ; 

Tlicir  rich  brimm'd  goblets,  that  incessant  run, 

Like  the  bright  spots  that  move  about  the  sun  ; 

And  wlicn  upheld,  the  wine  from  each  briglit  jar 

Pours  with  the  lustre  of  a  falling  star. 

Yet  further  off  are  dimly  seen  their  bowers, 

Of  which  no  mortal  eye  can  roach  the  flowers  ; 

And  't  is  right  just,  for  well  Apollo  knows 

'Twould  make  the  Poet  quarrel  with  the  rose. 

All  that's  reveal'd  from  that  far  seat  of  blisses. 

Is,  the  clear  fountains'  interchanging  kisses, 

As  gracefullv  descending,  light  and  thin. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  140 

Like  silver  streaks  across  a  dolphin's  fiii, 
AViien  he  upswiinnieth  from  the  coral  caves, 
And  sports  with  half  his  tail  above  the  waves. 

These  wonders  strange  he  sees,  and  many  nwre, 

Whose  head  is  pregnant  with  poetic  lore  : 

Siiould  he  upon  an  evening  ramble  fare 

With  forehead  to  the  soothing  breezes  bare, 

Would  he  naught  see  but  the  dark,  silent  blue, 

With  all  its  diamonds  trembling  through  and  through? 

Or  the  coy  moon,  when  in  the  waviness 

Of  whitest  clouds  she  docs  her  beauty  dress, 

And  staidly  paces  higher  up,  and  higher. 

Like  a  sweet  nun  in  holiday  attire  ? 

Ah,  yes  !  much  more  would  start  into  his  sight — 

The  revelries  and  mysteries  of  night : 

And  should  I  ever  see  them,  I  will  tell  you 

Such  tales  as  needs  must  with  amazement  spell  you. 

These  are  the  living  pleasures  of  the  bard : 

But  richer  far  posterity's  award. 

What  does  he  murmur  with  his  latest  breath, 

While  his  proud  eye  looks  through  the  film  of  death  ? 

"  What  though  I  leave  this  dull  and  earthly  mould, 

Vet  shall  my  spirit  lofty  converse  hold 

With  after  times. — The  patriot  shall  feel 

My  stern  alarum,  and  unsheath  his  steel ; 

Or  in  the  senate  thunder  out  my  numbers. 

To  startle  princes  from  their  easy  slumbers. 

The  sage  will  mingle  with  each  moral  theme 

My  happy  thoughts  .sententious  :  he  will  teem 

With  lofty  pcri(jds  when  my  verses  fire  him, 

And  then  I'll  stoop  from  heaven  to  inspire  him. 


100  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Lays  have  I  left  of  such  a  dear  delight 

That  maids  will  sing  them  on  their  bridal-night. 

Gay  villagers,  upon  a  morn  of  May, 

When  they  have  tired  their  gentle  limbs  with  play, 

And  form'd  a  snowy  circle  on  the  grass, 

And  placed  in  midst  of  all  that  lovely  lass 

Who  chosen  is  their  queen, — with  her  fine  head 

Crowned  with  flowers  purple,  white,  and  red  : 

For  there  the  lily  and  the  musk-rose  sighing. 

Are  emblems  true  of  hapless  lovers  dying : 

Between  her  breasts,  that  never  yet  felt  trouble, 

A  bunch  of  violets  full  blown,  and  double. 

Serenely  sleep  : — she  from  a  casket  takes 

A  little  book, — and  then  a  joy  awakes 

About  each  youthful  heart, — with  stifled  cries, 

And  rubbing  of  white  hands,  and  sparkling  eyes : 

For  she's  to  read  a  tale  of  hopes  and  fears ; 

One  that  I  fostcr'd  in  my  youthful  years : 

The  pearls,  that  on  each  glistening  circlet  sleep. 

Gush  ever  and  anon  with  silent  creep 

Lured  by  the  innocent  dimples.     To  sweet  rest 

Shall  the  dear  babe,  upon  its  mother's  breast. 

Be  luU'd  with  songs  of  mine.     Fair  world,  adieu  ! 

Thy  dales  and  hills  are  fading  fron)  my  view  : 

Swiftly  I  mount,  upon  wide-spreading  pinions. 

Far  from  the  narrow  bounds  of  thy  dominions. 

Full  joy  I  feel,  while  thus  I  cleave  the  air. 

That  my  soft  verse  will  charm  thy  daughters  fair, 

And  warm  thy  sons  !"     Ah,  my  dear  friend  and  brother, 

Could  I,  at  once,  my  mad  ambition  smother, 

For  tasting  joys  like  these,  sure  I  should  be 

Happier,  and  dearer  to  society. 

At  times,  't  is  true,  I  've  felt  relief  from  pain 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  151 

When  some  bright  thought  has  darted  througli  my  brain  : 
Through  all  that  day  I've  felt  a  greater  pleasure 
Than  if  I  had  brought  to  light  a  hidden  treasure. 
As  to  my  sonnets,  though  none  else  should  heed  them, 
I  feel  delighted,  still,  that  you  should  read  them. 
Of  late,  too,  I  have  had  much  calm  enjoyment, 
Stretch'd  on  the  grass  at  my  best  loved  employment 
Of  scribbling  lines  for  you.     These  things  I  thought 
While,  in  my  face,  the  freshest  breeze  I  caught. 
E'en  now  I  am  pillow'd  on  a  bed  of  flowers 
That  crowns  a  lofty  cliff,  which  proudly  towers 
Above  the  ocean  waves.     The  stalks  and  blades 
Chequer  my  tablet  with  their  quivering  shades. 
On  one  side  is  a  field  of  drooping  oats, 
Through  which  the  poppies  show  their  scarlet  coats. 
So  pert  and  useless,  that  they  bring  to  mind 
The  scarlet  coats  that  pester  human-kind. 
And  on  the  other  side,  out-spread,  is  seen 
Ocean's  blue  mantle,  streak'd  with  purple  and  green  ; 
Now  'tis  I  see  a  canvass  d  ship,  and  now 
Mark  the  bright  silver  curling  round  her  prow. 
I  see  the  lark  down-dropping  to  his  nest, 
And  the  broad-wing'd  sea-gull  never  at  rest ; 
For  when  no  more  he  spreads  his  feathers  free. 
His  breast  is  dancing  on  the  restless  sea. 
Now  I  direct  my  eyes  into  the  west, 
Which  at  this  moment  is  in  sun-beams  drcst : 
Why  westward  turn  ?     'Twas  but  to  say  adieu  ! 
'T  was  but  to  kiss  my  hand,  dear  (Tcorge,  to  you  ! 
Auguxt,  181G. 


152  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TO  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE. 

Oft  have  you  seen  a  swan  superbly  frowning, 

And  with  proud  breast  his  own  white  shadow  crowning; 

He  slants  his  neck  beneath  the  waters  briglit 

So  silently,  it  seems  a  beam  of  light 

Come  from  the  galaxy :  anon  he  sports, — 

With  outspread  wings  the  Naiad  Zephyr  courts, 

Or  ruffles  all  the  surface  of  the  lake 

In  striving  from  its  crystal  face  to  take 

Some  diamond  water-drops,  and  them  to  treasure 

In  milky  nest,  and  sip  them  off  at  leisure. 

But  not  a  moment  can  he  there  ensure  them, 

Nor  to  such  downy  rest  can  he  allure  them  ; 

For  down  they  rush  as  though  they  would  be  free, 

And  drop  like  hours  into  eternity. 

Just  like  that  bird  am  I  in  loss  of  time, 

Whene'er  I  venture  on  the  stream  of  rhyme ; 

W^ith  shatter'd  boat,  oar  snapt,  and  canvas  rent, 

I.  slowly  sail,  scarce  knowing  my  intent ; 

Still  scooping  up  the  water  with  my  fingers. 

In  which  a  trembling  diamond  never  lingers. 

By  this,  friend  Charles,  you  may  full  plainly  see 
Why  I  have  never  penn'd  a  line  to  thee  : 
Because  my  thoughts  were  never  free  and  clear, 
And  little  fit  to  please  a  classic  ear ; 
Because  my  wine  was  of  too  poor  a  savor 
For  one  whose  palate  gladdens  in  the  flavor 
Of  sparkling  Helicon  : — small  good  it  were 
To  take  him  to  a  desert  rude  and  bare, 
Who  had  on  Baiai's  shore  reclined  at  ease, 
While  Tasso's  page  was  floating  in  a  breeze 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  ir,3 


That  gave  soft  music  from  Armida's  bovvers, 
Mingled  with  fragrance  from  her  rarest  flowers  : 
Small  good  to  one  who  had  by  Mulla's  stream 
Fondled  the  maidens  with  the  breasts  of  cream  ; 
Who  had  beheld  Belphoebe  in  a  brook, 
And  lovely  Una  in  a  leafy  nook, 
And  Archimago  leaning  o'er  his  book  : 
Who  had  of  all  that's  sweet  tasted,  and  seen 
From  silvery  ripple,  up  to  beauty's  queen  ; 
From  the  sequester'd  haunts  of  gay  Titania, 
To  the  blue  dwelling  of  divine  Urania  : 
One,  who,  of  late,  had  ta'en  sweet  forest  walks 
With  him  who  elegantly  chats  and  talks — 
The  wrong'd  Libertas — who  has  told  you  stories 
Of  laurel  chaplets,  and  Apollo's  glories  ; 
Of  troops  chivalrous  prancing  through  a  city, 
And  tearful  ladies,  made  for  love  and  pity  : 
With  many  else  which  I  have  never  known. 
Thus  have  I  thought ;  and  days  and  days  have  down 
Slowly,  or  rapidly — unwilling  still 
For  you  to  try  my  dull,  unlearned  quill. 
Nor  should  I  now,  but  that  I've  known  you  long  ; 
That  you  first  taught  me  all  the  sweets  of  song  : 
The  grand,  the  sweet,  the  terse,  the  free,  the  fine  : 
What  swell'd  with  pathos,  and  what  right  divine  : 
Spenserian  vowels  that  elope  with  ease. 
And  float  along  like  birds  o'er  summer  seas, 
Miltonian  storms,  and  more,  Miltonian  tenderness  ; 
Michael  in  arms,  and  more;  meek  Eve's  fair  slenderncss 
Who  read  for  me  the  sonnet  swelling  loudly 
Up  to  its  climax,  and  then  dying  proudly  ? 
Who  found  for  me  the  grandeur  of  the  ode. 
Growing,  like  Atlas,  stronger  from  its  load  ? 
8* 


151  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

•        Who  let  me  taste  that  more  than  cordial  dram, 
Tiie  sharp,  the  rapier-pointed  epigram  ? 
Show'd  me  that  epic  was  of  all  the  king, 
Round,  vast,  and  spanning  all,  like  Saturn's  ring  ? 
You  too  upheld  the  veil  from  Clio's  beauty, 
And  pointed  out  the  patriot's  stern  duty  ; 
The  might  of  Alfred,  and  the  shaft  of  Tell ; 
The  hand  of  Brutus,  tliat  so  grandly  fell 
Upon  a  tyrant's  head.     Ah  !  had  I  never  seen, 
Or  known  your  kindness,  what  might  I  have  been  ? 
What  my  enjoyments  in  my  youthful  years, 
Bereft  of  all  that  now  my  life  endears  ? 
And  can  I  e'er  these  benefits  forget  ? 
And  can  I  e'er  repay  the  friendly  debt  ? 
No,  doubly  no  ; — yet  should  these  rhymings  please, 
I  shall  roll  on  the  grass  with  two- fold  ease ; 
For  I  have  long  time  been  my  fancy  feeding 
With  hopes  that  you  would  one  day  think  the  reading 
Of  my  rough  verses  not  an  hour  mispent ; 
Should  it  e'er  be  so,  what  a  rich  content ! 
Some  weeks  have  pass'd  since  last  I  saw  the  spires 
In  lucent  Thames  reflected  : — warm  desires 
To  see  the  sun  o'er-peep  the  eastern  dimness, 
And  morning-shadows  streaking  into  slimness 
Across  the  lawny  fields,  and  pebbly  water  ; 
To  mark  the  time  as  they  grow  broad  and  shorter ; 
To  feel  the  air  that  plays  about  the  hills, 
And  sips  its  freshness  from  the  little  rills ; 
To  see  high,  golden  corn  wave  in  the  light 
When  Cynthia  smiles  upon  a  summer's  night, 
And  peers  among  the  cloudlets,  jet  and  white, 
As  though  she  were  reclining  in  a  bed 
Of  bean-blossoms,  in  heaven  freshly  shed. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  155 

No  sooner  had  I  stepp'd  into  these  pleasures, 

Than  I  began  to  tliink  of  rhymes  and  measures  ; 

The  air  that  floated  by  mc  seem'd  to  say, 

"  VVrite  !  thou  wilt  never  have  a  better  day." 

And  so  I  did.     When  many  lines  I'd  written, 

Though  with  their  jrrace  I  was  not  oversmitten, 

Yet,  as  my  hand  was  warm,  I  thought  I'd  better 

Trust  to  my  feelings,  and  write  you  a  letter. 

Such  an  attempt  required  an  inspiration 

Of  a  peculiar  sort, — a  consummation  ; — 

Which,  had  I  felt,  these  scribblings  might  have  been 

Verses  from  which  the  soul  would  never  wean  ; 

But  many  days  have  passed  since  last  iny  heart 

Was  warm'd  luxuriously  by  divine  Mozart ; 

By  Arne  delighted,  or  by  Handel  madden'd  ; 

Or  by  the  song  of  Erin  pierced  and  sadden'd  : 

What  time  you  were  before  the  music  sitting, 

And  the  rich  notes  to  each  sensation  fitting. 

Since  I  have  walk'd  with  you  through  shady  lanes 

That  freshly  terminate  in  open  plains. 

And  revell'd  in  a  chat  that  ceased  not, 

When,  at  night-fall,  among  your  books  we  got : 

No,  nor  when  supper  came,  nor  after  that, — 

Nor  when  reluctantly  I  took  my  hat; 

No,  nor  till  cordially  you  shook  my  hand 

Mid- way  between  our  hpmes : — your  accents  bland 

Still  sounded  in  my  ears,  when  I  no  more 

Could  hear  your  footsteps  touch  the  gravelly  floor. 

Sometimes  I  lost  them,  and  then  found  again  ; 

You  changed  the  foot-path  for  the  grassy  plain. 

In  those  still  moments  I  have  wish'd  you  joys 

That  well  you  know  to  honor : — "  Life's  very  toys 


15G  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

With  him,"  said  I,  "  will  take  a  pleasant  charm ; 
It  cannot  be  that  aught  will  work  him  harm." 
These  thoughts  now  come  o'er  me  with  all  their  might : — 
Again  I  shake  your  hand, — friend  Charles,  good  night. 
September,  181G. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  157 


STANZAS. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 

Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity  : 

The  north  cannot  undo  them, 

With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them  ; 

Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 

From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah !  would  't  were  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it. 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 


END    OF    PART    II. 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

THE 
HANES  FOUNDATION 

FOR  THE  STUDY  OF  THE 

ORIGIN  AND  DEVELOPMENT 

OF  THE  BOOK 

ESTABLISHED  BY  THE  CHILDREN  OF 

JOHN  WESLEY  AND 

ANNA  HODGIN  HANES 

RARE  BOOK  COLLECTION 

Keats 
PR4830 
.E46 
1846 


„ .  ^ .  * .  * .  * .  .1. .  >t .  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  • 

*****  .*.*.*.*•-*•  *.  •  * :  * :  * :  *i,*^**1 

L- .  *  .  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  :*  :*•.  * 
.  .1. .  *  .*  .  *.•  *.*•*-•*•*•*•*  •  *  •  ^^  ; 
*..  *.  *.*.*.*•*•*  •*:*:*;,*: 

.  ^. .  *  .  *  .  *  •  4^  — 1^  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  '^" 


*  •  * 


-!«.*•*•* 


.  >5,  .  ^.  .  ^  .  ^  •  ^<e  •  *  .  ■?<•  •  *  ■  *  •  *  ^  ^  ^       f  - 

.  ^  .  ^. .  ^  .  *  •  ^-  ^-^  ^  ^-  *  •  *  ;  *>  ^  *  :  *  ;^  *-    * .  V 
.***^.**%  .  -.^  ■  *  •  ^  •  *  •  *  •  ^^ ; ^^  ;^^ ; *^  ;^  :  -' 


^«    •    ^    •    n* 


^  .  *  .  ^1.  .  *  .  *  •  *  •  >i^  ;  -^^  •  V      *      *  ^       ^      *  J,  . 

r  ^* ^T ^  U* ^   ^. .  *  .  *  .  ^  •  *j-  •  *  •  *  •  *  •  * ;^* : 


4.  .  ^  .  »i^  •  4^  •  >t  •  *  •  ^ 


^  .  *  •  4'  •   ♦  •  *  •  -i^  •  *  • 


^^  .*•■*•  ^ 


,J,     .     ,|,     .     4«     .     ♦>     .     >tr     •     >>     • 


, .  ^  % :  * .  *  .  ^*  •  *  •  ^-  *  •  *  •  ^^  •  *  -^  •  *  r' . 


